Lord Martin
by Fuzzhugs
Summary: Following the death of a loved one, Martin the Warrior begins a reign of terror over the citizens of Mossflower Country under the name Lord Martin, also called the Warlord.
1. Lord Martin Part 1

The morning wind was cold, but not as cold as the gaze of Martin, Son of Luke. The warmth of his stone-grey eyes had long left him, leaving his irises emotionless and dark while the black dots of his pupils remained constantly alert, piercing the very air around him, searching for enemies.

Martin stood atop an icy crag which jutted from a mountain, watching the morning sun breach the horizon. A gust of wind billowed up his brown cloak, but he barely felt the freezing blast; he was focused on the horizon. Planning. Strategizing.

It had taken most of the night for him to climb up to the peak on which he stood, and the summit of the mountain was higher still, unseen above the clouds.

As Martin gazed southward, he heard a horn blare out three times from the valley below. Nestled within the mountain's ridges along the valley floor was an encampment, a veritable city of tents well on its way to becoming a village. Most of the residents called it Mountaintown; others simply called it camp. Awakened by horn, the townsfolk rose and began their morning work, filling the village with life. A short while later, the horn sounded again, but in two long tones.

"Morning announcements," Martin commented, "better get down there." The warrior-mouse took several steps back from the cliff face and pulled a carved reed from his pocket. Blowing into the tube produced a loud, shrill cry. Martin placed the whistle back into his cloak.

"Three," he counted down, "two, one." Martin sprang forward and threw himself from the mountain, plummeting down toward the valley.

Martin's heart beat with excitement as he fell past boulders and glaciers; the wind roared as he laughed through his adrenaline rush.

After a few moments in freefall, something large and dark pulled alongside Martin, falling with him. Spinning around in the air, Martin grabbed onto the feathery pelt, and the creature extended its wings, gliding down toward the village.

Kor, a golden eagle, was the last survivor of the eagles who had fancied themselves rulers of the mountain. When Martin and his forces had taken the surrounding valley, the eagles took notice and launched an attack. Crossbows and javelins had made short work of the aerial combatants. Kor had been injured, but Martin had spared his life, deciding to make him a tool of conquest. A season of harsh lessons later, and Kor was a perfectly obedient servant.

As the majestic bird neared the ground, Martin slid from his back and skidded to a halt. As the dust stirred up by the eagle's wings settled, Martin watched his mount rise up to the clouds, waiting to be called again.

Mountaintown was filled buzzing with activity. Cooking fires were already burning, young ones dashed through the spaces between tents and huts, and the beginnings of a fishing party were gathering at the wooden barricade surrounding the village.

Martin made his way to the center of the hamlet, passing by a menagerie of creatures: squirrels formerly of the Gawtribe, a few Pygmy shrews, a flotilla of otters, a mixture of mice and voles, and even the occasional rat, ferret, weasel, and fox.

In the center of the camp was a clearing surrounding a single longhouse, which served as Martin's own residence as well as the community's gathering space. Martin spotted his second in command, a large grey squirrel named Liam, leaning on the doorposts.

Aside from his girth, which was larger than normal for a squirrel, Liam's most noticeable feature was his lack of a left paw. Halfway below his elbow, the flesh ended in a stump. Liam never mentioned what had happened to his paw, and his rough, no-nonsense personality generally prevented most from asking him about it. The lack of a paw did not slow Liam down, however. He was just as capable a fighter as anybeast, if not more so. When the mood struck him, the squirrel would fix a spike or hook to the end of his truncated arm to use as a weapon or climbing tool.

No unnecessary greetings or pleasantries were given or expected between the two warriors. Liam began his report as soon as Martin came to a halt.

"The lemmings of that tundra village haff agreed t' support us," Liam began in his quiet, monotone voice, "but they've few warriors among 'em. They're mostly farmers an' scavengers."

"Armies need food, and a farmer can be taught to fight if the need arises."

Liam nodded and continued. "The wandering band of arctic foxes declined t' join us. They gave no opposition, but refused allegiance."

"Damn, they would have been an asset in the Snowlands." Martin thought for a moment. "Have a scout keep tabs on their position, and extend the offer again when the season is done. If they refuse again, they will have to be dealt with. Any other news?"

"Nothin' definite, but we've some limited information on the southern country. Secondhand knowledge from a merchant who heard it from migratin' birds. There's a small kingdom down there ruled by a wildcat and his horde. They'll have t' be driven out."

"Of course, but we have to increase our numbers first and concentrate on the Northlands. What are the latest recruitment numbers?"

"The current count is 718 creatures, but only 400 kin fight."

"We need more," Martin grimaced as he looked south, "many more." He continued staring off into the distance, his cold eyes longing for battle.

"You've a visitor," Liam added, breaking Martin's trance.

"What? A visitor? Who?"

Didn't give no name, but came unarmed. Arrived this morning while you was on the mountain. He's in the longhouse right now."

With a nod of his head, Martin indicated Liam was to join him inside.

The mouse waiting for them had an unusual look to him. His head-fur was long and woven into braids, the satchel hanging from his shoulder was stuffed with roots and herbs, and his gnarled walking staff had a few pieces of quartz embedded at the end. He was obviously a healer, but was not aged as many healers were. In fact, he appeared to be younger than Martin.

"You wished to speak with me?" Martin asked of the strange mouse.

"If I recall correctly, the last time we spoke was at Polleekin's house. I've grown quite a bit since then, so you may not recognize me."

Martin took another close look at the mouse. His bright eyes, the way his whisker's twitched… It had been ages, but there was no mistaking it. "Brome?" Martin said in disbelief.

"Hello Martin," he said calmly.

"Brome," Martin visibly smiled for the first time in ages, "what are you doing here? We must be half a season's march from Noonvale. Is something wrong?"

Brome shook his head. "Everything is fine at Noonvale. I came here on my own to ask you something."

"Well, what?"

"What in Hellgates are you doing?"

Martin was taken aback by Brome's brashness. "Excuse me?"

"When I heard you were raising an army, launching attacks against encampments in the North, I could hardly believe it. I though there had to be some misunderstanding, so I decided to ask you myself, and I learned a few things from creatures on the way. I saw places were villages were leveled and burned to the ground. I saw caravans and soldiers bearing the same banner flying over this building. I didn't want to believe that you could be ordering destruction on this scale, so I pressed onward. And now I'm here, so I'll ask you again. What in Hellgates are you doing?"

The smile left Martin's face, replaced by a grim scowl. "I'm making this land a safer place to live."

"By killing everyone who won't join you!?"

"I ask only for support. They don't have to like me, but I won't let anyone oppose me."

"Oh, so that camp of water rats offered such opposition that it needed to be destroyed? I found the survivors, Martin! They didn't even fight!"

"They refused to submit to my cause."

Brome laughed coldly. "It's all about your cause, your desires, isn't it? Well who gave you the right to decide who lives and who dies?"

"THE EXISTENCE OF MURDERERS AND TYRANS GIVES ME THE RIGHT!" Martin bellowed. "Everyone I've cared about has been taken from me by some sort of scum! Mother, dead. Father, missing. Grandmother, dead. Felldoh, dead. Rose…"

"Rose would be very disappointed in you, Martin."

Crack! Martin swung his fist into Brome's muzzle, breaking his nose.

Brome swayed, but managed to recover and stay on his paws. "I cared about Felldoh and Rose too, Martin," he sighed, blood pouring down his face, "or did you forget you aren't the only one with feelings?"

"Get out."

"This is what killed Felldoh. The fight stopped being about the cause and became his own personal vendetta."

"I said get out."

"Make sure that in your fight against tyrants you don't become one yourself."

"GET OUT!"

Brome took and step back and gave an exaggerated bow, flourishing his arms as blood dripped to the floor. "As you command, Lord Martin." His voice seeped with sarcasm.

A small trail of crimson droplets formed as Brome walked to the door.

"Wait."

Brome slowly turned around.

"Out of respect for the friendship that formerly existed between us, I give my word that I will not send armed soldiers within a day's march of Noonvale. A scout or messenger may pass through, but not soldiers."

"Your word isn't worth much to me these days, Martin."

There was silence for a few long moments.

"Keyla and Tullgrew had pups a few season back," Brome broke the unsettling quiet. "They named one after you. Make sure his name doesn't become a curse." Without another word, Brome left.

Liam, who had witnessed the entire exchange in stoic silence, stood by his commander's side and waited for orders.

"Liam," Martin asked his officer, "are we doing the right thing?"

The large squirrel weighed his words before speaking. "When I loss'd me' paw, I also lost me' son. 'Twas a gang of marauding savages that done it. Had they only taken me' paw, I coulda kept on livin', but they took me' son, an' I haven't lived a day since then, and there hasn't been a day where I've wished every last bleeding savage in this land dead. I've still got me' wife and daughter, an' there ain't nothin' I wouldn't do to make this world a safe place for 'em. I would carve a trail t' Hellgates itself if it meant me' daughter wouldn't haff t' worry about what's hidin' in the shadows. So I'm with ya Martin, from here t' the grave. Let's drive out every last piece of slavin' and murderin' scum from this land."

Martin took a deep breath before speaking. "Consult with the lieutenants and begin making plans for increasing recruitment. We'll need at least a thousand to take the midlands. And I want more information about the southern woods. How many wildcats are there? Are the locals favorable to them? Find more about the southern coasts as well. Start considering naval strategies."

"Yes Martin." Liam departed to do his commander's bidding.

Martin stepped out after him and stood against the doorposts, gazing south, watching and waiting. A gust of wind blew through the camp, launching loose frost into the air. The wind was cold, but not as cold as the eyes of Martin, Son of Luke.


	2. Lord Martin Part 2

From the records of Gustaff, Chief Chronicler among the forces of Martin, Lord of the Northlands.

I suppose it is strange for a scholar to be counted among the forces of the mightiest conqueror to stand upon the shores of this land, but when all is said and done, it must be known, in the greatest possible detail, what has transpired. Only then can the importance and necessity of our deeds be fully understood and appreciated by those who may question our methods.

Something similar was said to me by my Lord Martin shortly after we first met. From the time I was a young mouse, I was different than the others, always smaller, weaker, slower. While the mice I grew up with chased leaves and feathers around the country side, I sat and watched the feathers and leaves, wondering how it was the wind made them dance. When I was grown, I had not the strength to be a forester, as was the custom of my village, nor the dexterity to be a craftsmouse. I suppose I would have ended up as a beggar or a complete outcast had it not been for Josephine.

Josephine, another odd mouse among my village. While others scolded me for asking too many questions, Josephine helped me find answers. She guided me as I sought knowledge, teaching me the ways of nature. She taught me my letters and gave me my first scroll to read.

After she passed, a great many seasons later, I took her place as the strange, but tolerated member of my village, dispensing my knowledge and wisdom to any who needed it. Though as the seasons passed, I grew weary of life in the village. I knew the world was so much larger than the valley I had spent my entire life in. I dreamed of venturing over mountains and crossing the seas to lands unknown. When these visions of adventure reached their apex, fortunate happenstance brought me to the very creature who could make my fantasies a reality.

Martin first entered our village at sunhigh some summer day, along with a small band of impressively armored creatures.

I listened closely as he met with the village elders, offering them a proposition that I would only know the details of later. I followed his every word, listening to his plan for peace and freedom from harm over the entire land. His words were compelling and his offer sincere, though I suspect the sharpness of his vanguard's spears had more to do with the elders' agreement to lend support.

During a brief tour of the village, Martin stopped in my hut and examined my writings. He seemed intrigued by my records of life in the village and my treatises on weather, crop production, and the structure of ant colonies. It was then that he asked me to come to his main camp and keep an archive of his campaigns. Such an offer was far above my ability to refuse, so after shoving a few scrolls into a sack, along with a quill and a tightly secured bottle of ink, I joined Martin and his band on their journey back into the heart of the Northlands.

There was very little work for me at the beginning, as Martin only had meager numbers of soldiers, barely enough to secure the mountain where they had made their encampment. Nevertheless, I found myself writing hour after hour, often well after the sun had set. I took a careful census every few weeks, keeping track of how many joined and how many departed. I mapped the reaches of Martin's territory, starting with the camp itself, which I had called Moutaintown, lacking a better alternative. A few days later, I found the name had somehow slipped away from my scrolls and was now on the tongues of the populace. I had meant it only as a placeholder, but the best-laid plans of mice and scholars often go awry.

The first act of conquest I was able to record firsthand was against the Snowlands, the very ends of the Northlands too inhospitable for all but the most dangerous or the most desperate. Life was only found far and wide in the Snowlands, and our army often marched for days on end with nothing but the crunch of the ice beneath their paws to break the silence.

The beasts of the Snowlands were indeed some of the fiercest I had ever laid eyes upon. Had I encountered one alone, I would have not needed to worry about being slain, as I would have died of fright before a paw could touch me.

Through all the trials we faced in the Snowlands, Martin stood firm, taking down creatures ten times his size as easily as a sparrow plucking a worm from the ground.

When we reached the furthest parts of the North, the sun ceased to shine and the very ground halted beneath our paws as we beheld a vast ocean dotted with chunks of ice. Our advance stopped there. With the Snowlands captured, Martin directed his army back toward Mountaintown, leaving a contingent of native Arctic foxes to keep order.

The campaign following the conquest of the Snowlands took much more time, but was far less taxing. Small battles and skirmishes were often all that was needed to eliminate whatever small bands of resistance appeared. The shrews and squirrels living along the lone mountain of the lower Northlands were hesitant to join, but were eventually made to see the wisdom of Martin's vision. The swamps were eventually cleared of the lizards and serpents that infested it, and Martin made arrangements for a stone path to be paved all the way to the coast. On the coast, the only site of interest was a burnt out husk of a fortress; Martin ordered everything that was left to be torn down and thrown into the sea.

The sole oddity of the lower Northland front was a small patch of land encompassing a valley of water meadows. To my eyes, it appeared that it would be an ideal place for a settlement or a farm, but Martin dismissed my comments when I brought them to him and refused to answer why. The look in his eyes when I mentioned the land made it clear further inquiry was not invited.

The southern border of the Northlands ended where the Midland Plains began. A seemingly endless ocean of grass and wildflowers separated Martin's armies from the woodlands of the south that I had heard of, but never seen before.

The plains themselves were sparsely populated, and minimal effort was needed to secure the fringes. Martin's main concern at the time was cross the expanse. He had considered bypassing the land entirely and taking to the sea, but that plan never amounted to anything as the time needed to build enough boats for the army was time we did not have, not to mention the lack of experienced sea beasts in our numbers.

With the sea cut off from our forces, the only option was to lead the armies across the plains, leaving the coastlands for another time. At this time, it became clear to Martin that he could not bring ever soldier with him and maintain control of his holdings. He appointed several trusted creatures to serve as his generals. To the Snowlands went General Endorra, an ermine, formerly a mercenary and a native to that land. To Mountaintown and the Northlands went General Liam, Martin's second-in-command. To the Midland Plains went General Drommo, a bankvole who was surprisingly fierce despite his short stature.

With the liberated lands now safely monitored, Martin led his forces south; I was among their numbers, mapping the land and recording our deeds.

We arrived in the woodlands, called Mossflower by the inhabitants, in the spring. At our arrival, the woodlanders were in the midst of a civil war of sorts against the wildcat queen who ruled from her crumbling stone fortress.

Martin determined the best course of action would be to aid the woodlanders in their struggle against the armies of Kotir, winning their favor for his cause.

The armies of Kotir turned out to be, using Martin's words, pushovers. The fortress was already in disrepair, the army was underfed and poorly equipped, and the queen herself a lunatic. The only reason the woodlanders hadn't swept over Kotir already was a lack of weapons and training. Numbers had always been on their side, even without the addition of refugee mice from the south.

When the final battle ended, Martin ordered that Kotir be torn down in its entirety, though seeing the towers of stone sparked within him an idea of founding a fortress of his own. After establishing an outpost at an abandoned structure half a day's march to the south, he ordered a stronghold built out of the local red sandstone constructed over the foundations of Kotir. Such a fortress would be an effective southern capital and command center for further advances into the south.

Not all creatures were happy with Martin's ambitious goals. A large portion of the native woodlanders and all of the mice from the south began a second resistance against Martin's order. The battles were small at first. Guerilla attacks along supply routes, ambushes against patrols, nothing irregular for a newly captured region, but the attacks continued for seasons and escalated until the partially constructed redstone castle was damaged in an act of sabotage. A group of rebels infiltrated the construction crew and smuggled in barrels of the explosive powder used in the quarry-digging. The tallest tower of the castle was topped by the explosion. It was then that Martin lost patience with the rebellion.

Construction efforts were temporarily halted, and all soldiers were charged with routing out the rebellion. The structure to the south that had been a military outpost was converted into a prison for captured rebels.

A season later, order was restored. The last of the rebels who had not fled Mossflower were subdued and their headquarters, a cavern beneath the roots of an ancient oak tree, was burnt to cinders. The able-bodied rebels were assigned to construction of the redstone castle. With all in order in Mossflower, Martin left one of his generals in charge and turned his sights to the coast.

While we had been busy in Mossflower, the remainder of our forces in the Northlands had dedicated themselves to learning the ways of the sea and the construction of warships. Intelligence on the coastland informed us that the point we would need to take was the mountain Salamandastron, ruled by a badger and guarded by hares.

The Badger Lord of Salamandastron, Boar the Fighter, had passed several seasons earlier, and the number of fighting hares had dwindled, but fate had brought a young badger to the mountain and called in a mob of new recruits to his side. Lord Hadron and his Long Patrol would be one of the greatest threats Martin had ever faced.


	3. Lord Martin Part 3

Two otters, an older and younger brother, walked hastily down the empty shoreline, keeping to the nighttime shadows, avoiding the light of the stars and moon. The tightly packed net of shrimp and fish carried on the elder brother's back made little noise as the pair slipped through thick patches of sea grass. The younger waited as his brother cautiously poked his head into the open and examined the brightening eastern horizon.

"We'll never make it back to the holt before breakfast," the older one partially whispered, "we best spend the day out here and slip in with the others in the evening. "

"There's a cave just around the corner," the younger one reminded. Though in his youthful seasons, he was not lacking in practical knowledge.

The elder nodded his approval and the two made a quick dash for the cave. It was small and almost pitch-black, little more than a hole in the earth, but it was dry and made for a good hideaway.

"See if you can find a large, flat rock. I'll get a fire going and we can fry up a few of these smaller fish."

"I say, did somebeast mentioned tucker?" a weak, but disciplined voice spoke from the shadows.

The younger otter jumped and hid behind his brother, who grabbed a stone from the sandy floor and prepared to throw it.

"Who goes there?"

"The who, dear fellow," the voice continued, "is me. The there is right here. The going, sadly, is no longer."

Flint and steel lit a small pile of dry grass and twigs and illuminated the speaker. A hare, not at all old, but heavily worn in appearance, lay in the far end of the cave. One of his footpaws was obviously severely injured.

The elder otter took stock of the situation and issued instructions to his brother. "Kale, go outside and bring in some driftwood for a fire. Do not be seen."

Kale nodded and silently scurried out onto the beach and out of sight.

"Finn Waterpaw," the otter introduced himself. "Now let me take a look at that paw."

"Braxton Tflaro, but Brax will do," the hare replied. "Don't bother with me paw, I'm done for. Haven't got more than a day left." Braxton gingerly lifted his jacket, showing a great number of wounds. "These are too deep, too old. Some are infected."

Finn sat back down to prepare breakfast. "Could you still manage a few fried fish?"

Braxton smartly saluted, "At all times, Chef Waterpaw." He chuckled to himself before entering a coughing fit.

"Did some of the Warlord's patrols do that do you?" Finn indicated Brax's wounds.

"Some guards on his lordship's supply caravans. My own bloody fault. Shouldn't have tried to take so many on by m'self."

"You're a rebel?"

"Have been since the fall of Salamandastron. Was a corporal there before the ol' Long Patrol was forcibly retired. What about you? That brother of yours is a bit young to be out by himself."

"The conscription detail has been making rounds in these parts the past few days. They aren't known to be terribly picky about age. On top of that, the local regiment takes most of the holt's daily catch for itself. We're practically starving. We're out harvesting as much as we can. Slip it back in without the soldiers noticing."

Kale entered the cave, dragging several driftwood branches behind him. "No sign of patrols or anybeast out there."

"Good, we should be safe for the time being."

"You blokes are awfully somber," Brax commented, "especially for otters. Otter's your age should be out splashing in the waves."

"Life under his lordship's rule doesn't leave much time for play. You grow up quickly…"

"…and die quickly."

Finn started setting up the cooking fire as Braxton talked. Kale piled some sand behind the hare to help keep him upright and comfortable.

"Let me tell you young'uns about the last days of the Long Patrol. How it all went so very wrong…"

Sturdy wooden warships lined the shore, obscuring the horizon. Some gently floated on the incoming tide, while others had been pulled fully onto the beach, forming shelters from the sun and the arrows of Salamandastron. From the top of each ship's mast flew a flag displaying a black sword on a red field: the emblem of Lord Martin, the Warlord.

The siege of Salamandastron has lasted for almost two whole seasons, with neither side gaining any ground. Martin's army had been unable to breach the mountain, while the Long Patrol was confined to the mountain interior by the bombardment from Martin's war machines. Catapults threw boulders, logs, and any other debris that could be loaded into them. Massive crossbows shot storms of arrows all at once. Anybeast trying to cross open ground was met with death.

From his perch near the top of the dormant volcano, Lord Hadron watched the shores, sea, and sky alike. Hadron was young for a badger lord, barely out of his youth, but he had both the strength and temperament to make an effective leader and commander.

As he surveyed the battlefield below, the Lord of Salamandastron tightly clenched the handle of his war-axe. A gust of wind tore at his cloak, exposing the bronze cuirass beneath. He could see storm clouds gathering on the horizon, coming toward the land.

"Ahem," a quiet voice from behind caused Hadron to turn. His friend and advisor, Colonel Greypaw, stood at attention, waiting to deliver her report.

"At ease, Colonel," Hadron spoke in a deep, monotone voice. "Have the messengers returned from the mouse's camp?"

"Just minutes ago, sir."

"And?"

"He's agreed to your request, but I still do not, if I may say so, sire."

Hadron chuckled. Greypaw had never been one to hide her opinion. "I know you're opposed to it, but I've made up my mind, and this is the only way. Tomorrow evening, I face the Warlord in single combat."

"We could wait out the siege. Our food supplies…"

"Cannot last forever, Colonel. We must face this problem here and now."

"But if you should fall?"

Hadron leaned against a rock and closed his eyes, lost in thought. "Even if I were to fall to the Warlord, if the Long Patrol were to be scattered, I do not think the mountain would allow itself to be without a badger lord for long." Hadron opened his eyes and turned to his friend. "How are the rest of the plans for tomorrow? Will they be ready?"

"Yes sire, all has been prepared as you commanded."

"Go and see that the Patrol is prepared. Weapons sharpened and wits about them. I'm going below to inspect the _Requiem_."

Lord Hadron left the mountain peak and made his way through the sloping, winding corridors of Salamandastron, passing by groups of the loyal hares who defended the coastland. Despite the siege, they were as lively as ever, snapping smartly to attention when they saw their lord approaching.

Far beneath the main halls of Salamandastron, Hadron stepped out of a narrow tunnel into a cold cavern. Massive stalactites reached down from the ceiling, and water dripped into the small lake that dominated the center of the chamber. In the middle of the lake was a ship. Though much smaller than most of the Warlord's armada, it still was large enough to hold several score of hares. The _Requiem_ , formerly _Bloodwake_ , had been captured following the death of Boar the Fighter, Hadron's predecessor. It had been modified and refurbished over time until it was in a fit state to serve as the sole ship of Salamandastron's navy.

At the opposite end of the chamber, near the prow of the _Requiem_ , was a wall of seaweed packed together with mud and covered in stone dust. It served to camouflage the seaward entrance to the cave. From the outside, it appeared to be no more irregular than the rest of the rocky mountain.

At sunset the next day, when the fight between Lord Hadron and Warlord Martin began, the false wall would be torn down and the _Requiem_ would sail off toward the setting sun, hiding it from prying eyes. Onboard would be the hares who were too young or too old to fight in the aftermath of the duel. If the worst were to happen, if Salamandastron were to fall, they would be the last hope for the coastlands and Mossflower country. It saddened Hadron to imagine the possibility, but such things were necessary to consider in warfare.

"Captain Brodderick," Hadron called to the keeper of the _Requiem_ , "how go the preparations?"

"Prep'rations nearly complete, m'lord," the half-wild seafaring hare shouted from his place up in the _Requiem_ 's rigging. "Last o' the supplies 'r being loaded as we speak."

"Will there be enough space for all of the passengers?"

"Pshaw. If anything, there'll be too few passengers. Many of the older leverets have complained about being made to go."

Hadron scowled. "You tell them that they'd best be ready to board or I'll personally drag them down the tunnel and toss them in the hold myself." He was firm on his evacuation orders. All leverets were to board the ship, along with the eldest of the Long Patrol and any with young ones. No exceptions.

The next morning came far too soon for some. A sense of foreboding filled the mountain. Lord Hadron spent the day alone in his private chambers.

When he emerged in the late afternoon, the entirety of the Long Patrol, minus the evacuees, had assembled in the main hall. All were dressed in their finest regalia, and their weapons gleamed in the torchlight. Hadron had donned metal greaves and bracers along with his breastplate, and he carried a wooden roundshield in addition to his war-axe. A single gesture was all it took to bring the hall to silence.

"Today we will face a battle unlike anything seen since the days of Lord Brocktree, but I know that each one of you will give your all and bring honor to Salamandastron and the Long Patrol. Regardless of the outcome, know that I am proud of every single one of you, and am honored to fight alongside warriors like yourselves. Now shall we go and show this Warlord who rules the Mossflower coast?"

"EULALIA!" The cry nearly deafened the badger lord and is echoed around the cavern. When the hares had settled down again, Colonel Greypaw began issuing orders. The regiment of hares divided into battalions and smaller units from there. With Lord Hadron at the head, the perilous beasts of Salamandastron left their mountain and took to the shores.

The storm clouds that Hadron had seen the previous day had moved onto the coast; a steady torrent of rain fell straight down from the heavens. Both armies stood eyeing each other beneath the downpour, arranged in two arcs forming a circular clearing. Everybeast wanted to see the two lords in battle, but none wanted to draw to close and be struck down accidently.

Hadron arrived in the middle of the arena first and waited for the Warlord to make his appearance. The mouse emerged from the midst of his horde, wearing a blood-red cloak that billowed as he strode toward the badger lord. Like Hadron, the Warlord had chosen to wear little armor: gauntlets, a pauldron over his left shoulder and chest, and greaves. He carried no shield, but held onto his battleblade with both paws.

There were no greetings or attempts at politeness while both fighters surveyed their opponent; they were well beyond the point where such a façade was necessary. Both were there for one purpose: to kill.

The storm reached its full strength and the wind howled in from the sea. The Warlord loosed his cloak and allowed it to drift away into the ranks behind him. He looked up into the storm where the clouds had started to swirl.

"On the next thunderclap?" he asked Hadron with an almost casual look.

Hadron nodded and stood ready. He did not have to wait long. A bolt of lightning struck half-a-league out to sea and was almost immediately followed by a deafening boom.

As the warriors clashed, there were no shouts of encouragement from either side; the armies only watched and waited.

Hadron had strength on his side. A single blow from his war-axe could prove fatal, but the Warlord was nimble, and managed to dodge or deflect the axe. Hadron's shield kept him solidly defended on his left side, but also slowed him down significantly. After an unsuccessful attempt by Hadron to pin the Warlord beneath his shield, both fighters sprang back to gather breath.

"Tired, badger?" the Warlord taunted.

"I had hoped you would surrender, and see the error of your ways," Hadron panted, "but it seems I must end this." Hadron started to growl and his eyes became clouded red.

"Bloodwrath, badger?" the Warlord sounded amused. "You are not the first I've faced with it. You certainly can use it," the Warlord closed his eyes and took a breath; when he opened them, they were as red as Hadron's, "but can you control it?" The Warlord grinned.

Hadron roared and sprang toward his foe. The sand, wet as it was, flew like dust; the two lords were a blur, and the clash of their steel was as loud as thunder. Hadron's blows were even stronger and faster than before, but more savage, less refined. The Warlord, however, was only more terrifying, seemingly losing none of his composure in the battle-rage.

The end of the duel was decided in a few moments. A full-strength blow from the Warlord broke Hadron's shield in two, robbing him of his defense. A few strikes later, Hadron was on the ground, bleeding through a gash that ran from his abdomen up to his heart. As life flowed from him, the last thing he saw was a silhouette on the horizon. The storm clouds had broken in the west and the sun was setting. The _Requiem_ was making its retreat.

"EULALIA!" rang out from the Long Patrol, and they rushed headlong to meet the Warlord's army. Though they were vastly outnumbered, they rushed into battle and refused to break, perilous beasts that they were.

"Salamandastron fell that day, most of the Patrol too," Braxton sighed. "Those that lived were kept as prisoners. Met Colonel Greypaw in the prison camp, who told us all of Lord Hadron's last days. She later died helping the rest of us escape. A true warrior, she was."

Finn and Kale sat on the opposite side of the cave from the Corporal, still transfixed by his words.

Eventually, Finn broke the silence. "Brax, how can we possibly fight against him? The Warlord's forces are impossibly large. There's no place we can flee to where he can't follow. Is there nothing we can do?"

Using what strength he had left, Braxton pushed himself upright. "Every fish you catch that doesn't go to his soldiers, every night you spend hiding from the consciptors, every thought of defiance is rebellion enough. As long as you young'uns never stop dreaming of freedom from the Warlord, he'll never have completely won." He gestured to Finn. "Come over here, lad."

Finn hurried to Braxton's side. The hare handed him the weapon tied to his belt.

"I was never skilled with a blade or at all accurate with a bow, but this mace served me all my days with the Patrol. Simple thing, really. Just swing until whatever you're swingin' at stops moving."

Finn took the iron rod in his paws. "I'm not sure I'd be brave enough…"

"When the time comes, you will be." Braxton lay down and spoke no more.

Finn and Kale stayed with their friend during the afternoon. When he finally succumbed to his wounds, they dug a grave in the sand and covered it with stones. Kale was more clever with letters than Finn, and wrote an epitaph as neatly as he could. "Corpral Brackston Flaro of the Long Patroll."

The two brothers left the cave at sunset and made their way home, keeping careful watch for any patrols and watchers.

Within an arrow's flight of their home holt, Finn and Kale were greeted from behind. "Well, what've we got here, a pair of fish thieves?" Three guards, two large squirrels and a ferret, had managed to sneak up behind them.

"There from the ocean. We caught them, they're ours." Kale spat, trying to sound brave.

The guards laughed. "Got a fighter here, a good beating will knock that out of you," the ferret smirked as he knocked Kale to the ground.

Finn dropped the net of shrimp and fish into the sand; his paw wrapped tightly around his mace. "Eulalia!"


	4. Lord Martin Part 4

Every day was the same for the slaves at the Crimson Fortress: awoken at dawn by the Warlord's officers, led into the mess tent for a meager breakfast, herded into the confines of the sandstone walls, and worked until sunset building the Crimson Fortress into a symbol of the Warlord's authority.

With every passing week, the walls and towers grew higher, rising above all of the surrounding foliage of Mossflower Wood. The Crimson Fortress, even in a partially completed state, was an imposing sight to behold. The main gates stood facing the path that ran north-south across the plain, their solid oak construction impervious to attack behind an iron portcullis. Towers along the walls would one day hold instruments of war: catapults, ballistae, and any other devices the Warlord's forces could devise. Trees within a hundred paces of the walls had been cleared so that no beast could approach the Fortress unseen. The interior area of the Fortress was dominated by a single edifice, a massive structure containing barracks, an armory, and supply storage. The upper attic spaces housed a veritable army of birds who served as messengers and scouts for the Warlord.

Most of the free space within the walls had been dedicated toward growing crops, and the pond was kept stocked with fish. The Crimson Fortress was rapidly becoming impenetrable and immune to siege.

Almost every facet of work performed within the Fortress was done by slaves. Of course, few of the Warlord's soldiers actually called them slaves. They were the laborers, the workers, the builders, or some other title meant to distract from what they truly were.

The first slaves had been prisoners, the last members of a rebellion striving to topple the authority of the Warlord within Mossflower, but few of them remained alive, and so their now grown children took their places. Free woodlanders who had refused to join the Warlord's ranks had been subjugated as well, forced out of their homes and brought to the ramshackle village across the path from the main gates where disease and hunger ran unchecked. There were no walls or towers around the village, but there was no point in escape; there was no place a creature could run that the Warlord's soldiers could not follow.

A mousemaid from the village, Genevieve, distinguished by the crescent-shaped patch of dark fur beside her right eye, had lost her brother to illness when she was still very young. Several seasons later, her parents followed, leaving her alone. Now Genevieve hauled pallets of quarried sandstone unloaded from the river barges, taking the red bricks from the river to the Fortress's eastern gate. From dawn till dusk every day, a line of slaves moved back and forth between the Fortress and the river, leaving deep furrows in the earth where the pallets dragged.

By midafternoon, even the most enduring creatures would begin to tire, but resting was not allowed, so the slaves pressed onward.

One of the overseers smacked his willow rod against a tree, encouraging the slaves forward. "Hurry up you lot, the stones ain't gonna haul themselves."

Genevieve spat at him while his head was turned. If he had seen, she'd probably have been beaten. The pallet she pulled along was lighter than normal, for which Genevieve was thankful; it was the closest she would get to a break until the evening.

As the slaves neared the Fortress, the near-elderly squirrel in front of Genevieve collapsed, panting in exhaustion. The overseer stormed up to the scene, his rod raised. "Get up! Who said you could stop?" He brought the rod down on the grey squirrel's back, and the poor beast groaned in pain.

It was a sight Genevieve had seen dozens of times before, but this time, something snapped inside of her. She had enough.

As soon as the overseer raised his rod to strike again, Genevieve dropped the rope she used to pull her pallet and sprang forward with a wild yell, tackling the overseer and bringing him to the ground. Genevieve started raining blows upon the cruel beast's face. Guards from the Fortress ran out to stop her, trying to pull her away from the overseer, but Genevieve refused to stop. She clawed and bit at everything she could reach. Her brief reign of terror over the guards only came to a halt when a surprise blow to her head brought her to her knees; a second blow turned the world black.

When Genevieve came to, she was alone and in a dark cell. Still in a daze, she tried to open the iron-bar door before realizing it was locked. She sat down on the wooden bench against the back wall of the cell, wishing the pounding in her head would stop. She could tell she was in the dungeons beneath the Fortress; she had spent many nights here over the seasons for causing mischief and petty thievery. There was no window for her to tell the time of day, but she felt tired and decided to make the most of her impromptu break. She lay down upon the bench and started to doze when there was a pounding on the cell door.

Genevieve glanced over, unconcerned. One of the captains stood outside. "You've done it now, mouse. The thievin' an' trouble-making we could stand, but attackin' Overseer Ruskin is too much."

"Bastard had it coming."

"General Folgrim says you're going to be hanged tomorrow evening for attacking a member of the Mossflower Regiment."

"Give Ruskin my regards."

"Do you really not care you are going to die?"

"Can't make a corpse haul bricks."

The captain shook his in disgust at the mousemaid's flippant responses and tossed a hunk of bread through the door. "Consider that your last supper." As his footsteps faded, Genevieve shouted after him, "If you need some pointers on ropes and knots, you know where to find me."

Genevieve once again reclined onto the bench. Despite her relaxed appearance, she was falling apart inside, her heart pounding and stomach churning.

"You're a strange one," said a calm, kind voice from the next cell over. "Most would be begging for their lives at this point." The voice was male, deep and soothing, but also powerful.

"Not much point in begging for something I don't want."

"You want to die?"

"If living means living here, than death is preferable. The Warlord rules everything."

Her unseen neighbor chuckled. "That didn't seem to stop you from pummeling Ruskin."

"But here I am, in the dungeon. Speaking of which, who are you, and what'd you do to get thrown in here?"

"Oh, the usual. Being a general nuisance to the soldiers. Stirring descent. But I'll get out eventually. That's for certain."

"What will you do then? There's no point in fighting what you can't change."

"That's where you're wrong, miss. The things you can't change are the things you have to fight the hardest. Take your overseer friend, I'd bet it will be some time before he takes a swing at a slave."

"Doesn't change much, and Ruskin was always a coward anyway."

"It certainly changed life for that squirrel you helped and for any other slave who Ruskin may have beaten, and it's my experience that tyrants are always cowards. Why do you think his Lordship has such a large army if not out of fear?"

Genevieve snickered. "I guess the fancy title doesn't help him much. I'm going to get out of here around midnight. Captain Smiley called this my supper, so it must be near sunset, which means I have six hours to wait. You want to spring this place with me?"

"Don't worry about me, young one. As long as you get out safely, I'll be fine. Get some rest now; I'll wake you up when it's time. When you do get out, I recommend going south. Follow the river until you come to a large inland lake. There's a hidden water-meadow along the eastern shore where free otters and shrews live. They can help you get to the middle of the lake."

"What's in the middle of the lake?" Genevieve asked, but her neighbor said no more. "Hmph, thanks for the advice Captain Cryptic. How about you tell me a riddle while you're at it?"

The next few hours of sleep were filled with fragmented, confusing dreams. Voices without owners whispered nonsense into her ears, stone walls leaking blood rose up around her, and then she was drowning, sinking down into a bottomless lake. Then, like a torch shining through the fog, a voice cried out over the chaos, "Go now Genevieve. You must go now."

Genevieve awoke from her dreams and quickly went to work. She removed the belt from around her waist and tore open a false seam, revealing a hidden pocket. Two flattened nails fell out into Genevieve's waiting paw: lockpicks. Sliding to the door, Genevieve eyed the keyhole. "A simple lock, this will be easy."

After a few minutes of work, the lock gave a solid click and Genevieve gently eased the door open. "Thank you, Papa," she whispered to herself. Taking a moment, she stepped down the corridor to check on her neighbor, but found nothing. The cell door was closed, but unlocked. Everything was in order, and the straw on the floor was undisturbed. Genevieve would have liked to spend time contemplating the mystery, but she had no time to spare. Clinging to the walls like a shadow, she silently made her way up the stairs.

The stairs led to the Feasting Hall, which would normally have been crawling with soldiers, but was vacant due to the lateness of the hour. Nevertheless, every creak and groan made Genevieve jump.

The exterior was similarly empty, with only a few watchers on the walls, but they were looking out, not in. The southern wall was largely unfinished, with scaffolding providing an easy exit. Climbing as well as any squirrel, Genevieve was soon at the edge. After a short drop down, she was out. Crawling through the tall grass, she made it to the edge of the forest, finally free.

Instead of immediately heading south, as the other prisoner had suggested, Genevieve took an easterly course with a different destination in mind. Though she had spent most of her life in the slave village, the woods of Mossflower were not completely foreign to her. When she was younger, and her father was still alive, he would take her on excursions into the woods.

Genevieve made good time on her detour, and reached her destination within a few hours of her escape. In front of her was a great pit, where thick and ancient roots lay burnt and decayed. Her father had told her about a great home beneath the roots of an ancient tree, where the last resistance against the Warlord had met. This place had been burned down seasons before Genevieve was born, but the place still smelled of smoke.

Breaking away from her nostalgia, Genevieve walked toward a boulder near the edge of the pit. Turning directly south, she counted out a dozen paces, and stopped directly in front of an aging maple. After clearing the soil away from the base, Genevieve reached inside a small hollow between the roots and pulled out a burlap sack.

Seasons before, her father had secretly hidden supplies all around Mossflower and had shown Geneveive where to find them. She could remember a few more of the locations, but did not have time to retrieve any more.

Dumping out the sack's contents, she took inventory of her supplies. In addition to the clothes she had on and her two lockpicks, she now had an empty canteen, a jar of preserved nuts, a sling, a pouch of stones, a dagger, and… Genevieve smiled. Of course her father would consider a reed flute essential survival supplies. She had never learned to play herself, but was glad to have something to remind her of family.

From the burnt ruins, Genevieve set out for the Great Southstream, the large river running through Mossflower to the southern lands. In truth, Genevieve had little regard for the other prisoner's strange directions, but she figured that having a definitive destination was better than wandering aimlessly through the Warlord's territory.

She followed the river at a brisk pace; patrols would be out after her as soon as her escape was discovered, but that would hopefully not be until sunrise. Had she been a more experienced river-beast, Genevieve would have considered riding a log down the river, but doing so now would only risk drowning.

When the sun began to peer over the treetops, exhaustion started to overtake Genevieve. She had been moving at a steady pace since midnight and so desperately wanted to rest, but she knew she would need as big of a head-start that she could get in order to escape the search parties sent after her.

At a bend in the river, the current slowed, and the banks were covered in soft sand. "Five minutes," Genevieve said to herself, "five minutes and then I keep going." Sitting on the ground, she took out the jar of nuts from her supply back and sampled a few. "Mama must have made these seasons ago. Papa probably pinched them from her, of course."

The short rest and breakfast had rejuvenated her, and Genevieve prepared to set off again when a noise from the forest caught her attention. Scrambling up into a tree, she surveyed the area, looking for the source of the noise. Not too far from her location, three soldiers, water rats, were harassing what looked like a river vole and her daughter. The insignia on the soldiers' uniforms identified them as a woodland patrol, not part of the Crimson Fortress regiment; they wouldn't have heard of her flight from prison yet.

Genevieve prepared to make her escape while the patrol was distracted, but something held her back. "They'll be fine, let's go," she muttered angrily to her footpaws, which refused to cooperate. "Gah, dammit," she growled. Pulling the reed flute from the sack, she blew the loudest, ugliest note she could.

"Wha' was that?" One of the soldiers glanced around, looking for the source of the noise.

"It came from the river. Go check it out."

While two of the rats made trudged through the undergrowth, Genevieve circled around them and shimmied up a tree. The remaining rat continued to interrogate the voles. These three rats were a collection detail, responsible for taking food and supplies as a form of a tax. Failing to provide a decent portion was not acceptable. These two voles, however, looked like they could barely feed themselves.

When the rat's back was turned, Genevieve silently dropped down. "Why am I doing this?" she thought as she twirled her loaded sling. "I don't know them, I don't care about them, so why am I still moving?" She brought the sling full-force into the side of the rat's skull. He crumpled to the ground without making a sound. The mother and daughter vole looked at her with surprise and fear.

"Go!" Genevieve hastily whispered. "Get somewhere safe." Needing no more prompting, the two voles hurried off into the forest and out of sight. Genevieve turned to go when the two other rats returned from the river. Whether they were more shocked to see a mousemaid suddenly in front of them or their colleague lying face down in the dirt was unclear, but Genevieve used their surprise to her advantage, shooting off a slingstone in the their general direction while she ran. Recovering their senses, the two rats gave chase, shouting threats and insults as they ran.

Genevieve was naturally swift, but hours of walking had taken their toll, and the rats had an additional height advantage. As fast as she was, the rats were gaining ground. There had to be something she could use to even the odds.

There! Standing upright on the edge of the river was a rotting log, probably deposited there in the last round of spring flooding. Putting on a final burst of speed, Genevieve sprinted along the shore and jumped into the log, the force of the impact causing the log to fall from its position into the river. The current rapidly carried both the log and Genevieve away from the rats, who stood on the shore, cursing their fleeing quarry.

Genevieve clung to the log with all her strength, struggling to crawl out of the river after swallowing a lungful of water. Coughing and sputtering, she pulled herself onto her impromptu boat and allowed herself to focus on recovery for a moment. The two rats pursuing her were dots in the distance, and Genevieve breathed a sigh of relief.

"New rule," Genevieve gasped as she forced the water out of her lungs, "no more swimming and no more water. Bathe at your own risk."

Exhausted, the drenched mousemaid lay down on the log, warming herself in the mid-morning sunlight. Sleep came easily.

A sudden jolt woke Genevieve from her slumber. The sun was high in the sky; it was close to midday. Genevieve, startled, bolted upright and searched for the source of the disturbance. Behind her, a rock larger than her stood unwavering in the the river. "That was close," she thought to herself, "I had better…" The thought fell away into nothingness as she looked ahead. More stones, each as large and imposing as the one behind her emerged like towers from the writhing and foaming river. In her slumber, Genevieve had drifted into the rapids.

The slew of curses Genevieve was about to utter was cut off when the log smashed into a rock, tipping it over and sending her into the river for the second time that day. Even grasping the log, she struggled to stay afloat as the rolling waves jostled the delicate craft from boulder to boulder. Without warning, the river dropped out from beneath her and ejected Genevieve into the open air. The waterfall roared as Genevieve fell, aware of her predicament only for a few seconds before hitting the water hard and blacking out.

Genevieve awoke with a groan, her head pounding. Weakly raising an arm, she shielded her eyes from the blinding sunlight coming from the hut's entrance. Hut? How had she gotten in a hut? The last thing she remembered was the river. As she tried to sit up and examine her surroundings, a paw gently held her down.

"Careful now," a kind voice said. "You've gone through quite an ordeal and you need rest."

Too weak to argue, Genevieve sank back down into the mattress beneath her and pulled the blankets up to her chin, drifting back into blissful unawareness.

Genevieve awoke again later in the afternoon, just before sunset. Her headache had mostly subsided, and she felt a little stronger, enough to sit up, anyway. Hearing conversation, she looked over to one side of the oval-shaped dwelling where she saw three creatures, an otter, a mouse, and a hedgehog, sitting around a small table, conversing and eating their dinner.

"If I can get a few fish tomorrow, will you be able to fry them?" the otter said to the mouse.

"I-I-I th-think so," the mouse replied, stuttering every few words. "F-first I n-need to deliver f-f-firewood t-to Droya. Sh-she said she'd t-trade m-mushrooms for it."

"Yum." said the hedgehog, still completely engaged in the bowl of soup before him.

The otter, who appeared to be a few seasons older the Genevieve, was the first to notice she was awake.

"Ben, Ben," he mentioned to the other two, our guest has joined us."

The mouse and hedgehog turned around to look as the otter approached her. His voice matched the kind one she had heard earlier.

"How are you feeling."

"Better than I was earlier, but starving."

The otter smiled, "good thing we saved you a bowl." Returning to the table, he lifted a bowl and brought it to Genevieve. "It's cooled a little, but is still delicious."

Genevieve needed no encouragement, drinking the entire bowl down in a matter of moments. The otter next offered some bread that, though slightly stale, was ravenously devoured.

"Good to see you have an appetite."

Genevieve propped herself up on her pillow. "Thank you for the food. Where am I? Can you tell me how I came here from the river? The last thing I remember is going over the waterfall."

"Waterfall!? That's almost a day's walk from here. You really went over it?"

Genevieve nodded.

"Wow, you are lucky to be alive. I found you while I was gathering roots from the plants growing by the river. You were unconscious and half-drowned by the look of you. This hut is where my friends and I live, hidden in a thick grove of trees. I'm Ben, by the way."

"Genevieve," she replied. "Didn't I hear you call the other two…?"

"Yes," Ben the otter nodded, "their names are also Ben and Ben."

"I-It's true," said Ben the mouse.

"Yep," said Ben the hedgehog.

"How did..?"

"It's quite the tale, really," Ben the otter said, launching into his story with dramatic flair. "You see, this hut used to belong to a healer vole named Ben."

"Another one?" Genevieve smirked.

"Th-that's right," Ben the mouse stammered.

"Four," Ben the hedgehog added.

"By complete coincidence, our mother's happened to be carrying us all at the same time, and happened to give birth to us within the same week, with assistance and healing from Ben. Between recovery and taking care of the infant us's, they didn't have time to discuss names with each other. Each wanting to thank Ben for his service, our mothers independently named us Ben."

"They couldn't change your names once they figured it out?" Genevieve questioned.

"Our m-m-mothers are v-very stubborn."

"Inflexible."

"Nobody wanted to change their precious baby's name, and so a solution was devised, by Ben himself no less. We were all named in the order we were born. The Ben over there with the back full of quills is properly entitled Benone. The Ben who blushes every time he looks at you is Bentwo" (the mouse quickly looked down at his soup bowl) "and me, the most eloquent storyteller of Mossflower is humbly known as Benthree."

"That's a bit odd."

"I-It works well enough f-for us."

"Efficient."

"So Genevieve, or Genny. Can I call you Genny? Your friends must call you Genny. What's your story Genny? How'd you come to be drifting down our lovely waterway like a piece of common debris?" Benthree asked in one long question, not stopping to take a breath or allowing Genevieve to answer.

"You can call me Genny if you want, it doesn't really matter. My story? I was born in Mossflower. Grew up a slave building a fortress in tribute to the Warlord's ego. They were going to kill me for beating up a guard. I escaped, got into a fight with a patrol, and escaped on the river. Falling over a waterfall took care of the rest. I was told to head for a lake south of here and search for a village of free beasts."

"I know that place," Benthree chimed it. "They call it Waterside. At least the otters there do. The shrews change the name every other week. I've got my eye on a girl there. Hildee. She's a great singer and can bake the most perfect culinary delights."

"Hildee i-is v-very nice. She s-sometimes has t-t-treats for us."

"Pie."

"Waterside is a half-day swim or a two-day walk from here, following the river," Benthree continued. "Considering your last aquatic outing did not end pleasantly, I'd recommend walking. You'll need supplies. You're welcome to borrow from our stocks. There's plenty to spare. It's best that you spend a day or two recuperating. You can use Bentwo's bed while you're here."

"You don't mind, Bentwo?" Genevieve asked the shy mouse.

"I-It's fine. We've p-plenty of straw to pile up on the f-f-floor."

"Bentwo's a good fellow. The way he's sneaking looks at you, he'd probably carry you to Waterside if you asked him."

"Infatuated."

Bentwo suddenly found the opposite side of the hut very fascinating and spent the next few minutes examining it.

During the evening time, the three inhabitants of the hut completed their daily chores. Genevieve assisted where she could, sweeping debris outside and away from the hut.

After sunset, the four told stories and sang songs. Genevieve added a few details to her story, but mostly watched and listened the three friends. In a way, she envied them, being so at ease with each other and their surroundings. They had never known slavery, and they loved life.

Benone and Benthree went to bed early, the hedgehog gently snoring in time with the crickets. Bentwo and Genevieve remained awake, watching the stars through the treetops. Bentwo continued to stutter, as he had done all of his life. Despite that, he managed to remain confident in his speech.

"Hey, Ben."

"Y-yes?"

"Why did you help me?"

"W-what do you m-mean?"

"I came floating unconscious down the river. For all you know I could have attacked you, or stolen your supplies. Maybe everything I've told you is a lie and I'm planning on doing just that. I've always only looked after myself. Probably the first decent thing I ever did was saving a squirrel by beating up that guard, but even that was more out of anger than compassion. So why help me?"

"B-Because you needed help."

His response only confused Genevieve. "I don't...what...but…" Tears started flowing. Why was she crying? "But I didn't deserve it! How can you care about someone you don't even know? I am so...so...terrible. I haven't done a good thing in my life. How can you help someone so awful?" She continued to weep, and Bentwo held her close, letting her cry into his shoulder.

Using a free paw, the mouse felt around in the bushes and pulled out a flower. "See th-this?" he asked Genevieve. She nodded. "W-what can you t-t-tell me about it?"

Genevieve took the flower. "It's a lily. White. It's wilted on one side…"

"It's w-wilted, yes," Bentwo confirmed, "but it's still a b-beautiful flower."

"I don't…"

"Just b-because the f-flower is imperfect d-doesn't mean it sh-should be destroyed. A flawed c-c-creature doesn't d-deserve to be left to die."

"But I'm so tired of being this way." Genevieve's voice ached with desperation. "I want to care, but I can't bring myself to that point."

Bentwo put his paws behind his head and lay back in the grass. "Y-you know that p-patch of fur around your eye l-looks like the m-moon?"

"So?"

"The m-moon is always changing. Every n-n-night it gets a little b-bigger or smaller. Sometimes we can't s-s-see it, but other times it shines b-brightly, lighting up the night. All creatures ch-change too. Sometimes q-quickly, sometimes slowly. It's always happening, we j-just can't always tell when it is."

Genevieve smiled a little. "Thank you, Ben."

"Don't think l-less of yourself for having f-f-flaws." He edged closer to Genevive. "I'll tell you a s-secret," he whispered conspiratorially. "Sometimes I'm n-n-not always nice."

Genevieve laughed for the first time in ages. "Say it isn't so. Surely it cannot be," she teased. "How did you become so wise?"

"I ate all m-my v-vegetables and always w-went to bed on time, like my m-mother told me," Ben smiled.

The two ended up spending hours talking beneath the night sky; Bentwo had to guide a half-asleep Genevieve to her bed so she wouldn't end up stiff the next day from sleeping on the ground.

In the morning, Genevieve made preparations to continue her journey downstream. She was sorry she had to leave her new friends, but she had set out to reach Waterside, and she intended to see her voyage through to the end. However, she first had to take stock of her supplies. Most of what she had been carrying had been lost during the chase and plummet from the falls. The dagger, canteen, and nuts were gone, but she still had her sling and the reed flute. The three Bens gave her a walking staff and enough dried fruit to keep her going for the next few days. They had also provided a new set of clothing more suitable for traveling than the ragged garments she had washed ashore wearing. The cloak they had given was Genevieve's favorite; not only was it warm, but it also gave her a sense of security to have a hood covering her head.

"I'll be sorry to see you depart," Benthree said to her as she prepared to leave. "If you could do me favor, find Hildee when you reach Waterside and give her this." The otter handed Genevieve a piece of wood, carved in the shape of what she assumed was an otter. "It was her birthday a while ago and wanted to give her something."

"I'll make sure she gets it. Thank you for all the help you've given me."

"C-come back and v-visit sometime," Bentwo suggested as he emerging from the hut.

"Yes, come back as much as you want," Benthree interrupted, "Bentwo could use someone cute to fawn over."

"Accurate," Benone added as Bentwo's ears turned red.

"I don't know if I'll be able to return. I'll have to see what awaits me at the lake," Genevieve stated apologetically, "but I'll keep you all in my thoughts," she added, looked towards Bentwo.

Turning away from her new friends, Genevieve began the next leg of her journey. The river was only a short walk from the Bens' hut, and she followed its flow southward from the shoreline.

The next two days were uneventful, if a little boring. There were no patrols or any woodlanders to speak of, which Genevieve counted as fortunate, wishing to remain hidden from prying eyes. At night she slept in trees, planting herself firmly in the fork of any convenient tree.

At midmorning of the second day, she reached the point where the river fed into the lake. The sea of blue stretching in front of her reminded Genevieve just how small she was, for the shore opposite from where she stood could not be seen. Her fellow prisoner back at the Fortress has said Waterside was on the eastern shore, so Genevieve set off in the direction of the rising sun, leaving her pawprints in the sand behind her.

At noon, Genevieve stopped to rest in the shade of a willow and enjoy what remained of the dried fruit. As she was finishing her last few bites, she heard a loud crash behind her and rolled out of the way just in time for a brown ball of fur to go shooting past her and into the lake. Two young otters, not noticing who they had nearly flattened, began a sort of wrestling match in the shallows of the lake, occasionally disappearing underwater for a few seconds, churning up the surface and disturbing the nearby reeds and lily pads. Bemused, Genevieve sat and began to watch the rambunctious young ones when a fully grown otter stepped out from the trees.

"Oh, excuse me," the otterwife said, clearly surprised to find Genevieve sitting on the shore. "My boys didn't run you over, did they?"

"It was a near miss, but they managed to only hit the lake."

The she-otter sighed. "I was taking these two out to pick berries with me, when all of a sudden theys just runs off, not a word to me or anybeast. They'll have me whiskers goin' grey before next autumn. I may just have to tie 'em to a tree until they grows out of this fightin' habit. Fernin Ruddertail, by the by," the otter introduced herself.

"Genevieve."

"Good mornin' to you, Miss Genevieve. Now if you'll pardon me, I have to deal with these...ruffians." Turning to the lake, she bellowed, "BOYS! HERE! NOW!"

Upon hearing their mother's angry voice, the two otters scampered out of the lake and shook themselves dry. Walking somberly toward their mother, they prepared for the scolding they were about to receive.

"Look at you two. First you go runnin' off on your own without so much as a 'please,' then you go and nearly trample Miss Genevieve, and now you've gotten yourselves wet and muddy and dirtied up your clothes. What have you got to say for yourselves?" She glared at her progeny.

"Sorry, Ma."

"Yeah, sorry."

"And…" Fernin sternly prompted, crossing her arms.

"Sorry we almost ran you over Miss Genevieve."

"I suppose that will have to do," Fernin said as she corralled her offspring, pulling them to her side. "Where were you heading to, Miss Genevieve?"

"Well, I was heading toward a place called Waterside. An otter named Ben said it was this way…"

"Oh, Benthree?" Fernin rolled her eyes. "A worse rascal than these two put together. I hope he behaved himself. He told you rightly at least. We come from Waterside. We'll guide you there and hopefully get some food in you."

With no complaints, Genevieve followed the otter family back through the woods. The young otter lads skipped ahead, chasing after every insect and fluttering leaf in eyesight.

Fernin shook her head at their antics. "I swear by all the seasons, I'd boot them all the way across the lake if I didn't love them so much."

"It's refreshing to see young ones with energy. Where I grew up we hardly had time to play."

"You're from up north, aren't you?" Fernin quietly asked Genevieve. "Not far north, but from northern Mossflower?"

Genevieve nodded. "I was a slave working on the Warlord's fortress, just as my parents were. They were going to kill me, so I left."

"It's a familiar story around here. My distant cousin was the Skipper of Otters in Mossflower seasons ago. He fought against the Warlord. After he died and many of the tribe were killed, the rest of the family moved south."

"I'm...so sorry."

"We all hope for the day when the tyrant is gone and we can return to the dens we grew up in."

"What of the shrews? I've heard there are shrews in Waterside as well."

"They mostly live on their boats and pull into town for supplies. Nice enough folk, but argumentative to no end."

A short time later, the group stopped at borders of a great swamp.

"Here we must be careful, Miss Genevieve," Fernin warned. "There are patches of quicksand and hidden drops all through this area. See the bushes with yellow flowers? They show the safe path as they only grow in thick, sturdy soil. Stay by them, and you will be safe."

The safe path was long and winding, but both Fernin and her pups led the way with confidence. At the end of the path on the top of a hill was a set of wooden steps buried in the earth. Following them to the base of the hill, Genevieve stepped through a wall of trees and into a large, open plain and beheld the village of Waterside. To one side was the shore of the lake, but it was largely blocked by a wall of dirt covered in trees, making the town nearly invisible from out on the water. The rest of the water-meadow was covered by either farm fields or houses.

The residences of Waterside reminded Genevieve of the slave village near the Fortress: small, shack-like, and poorly maintained. Nonetheless, the village here seemed much...happier. Dibbuns laughed and played in the streets. Some adults were playing instruments, singing, and dancing. This village was alive.

Leading Genevieve through the village, Fernin brought her to her house, a single-room cottage made of planks of wood and piles of sod. A large male otter stood at the doorway to greet them.

"There y'ar beauty," the otter called to Fernin, embracing her when she drew near. "How were the terrors today? Do I need to chop their rudders off?" He playfully growled at the children.

"Not tonight, you savage," Fernin said, shooting a glance towards the pups, "next time, however…"

"An' ya brought comp'ny, I see."

"This is Miss Genevieve, traveling from the north. Genevieve, this oaf is my husband, Drake."

"Oaf!? Ooh, me heart," Drake clutched at his chest dramatically before collapsing, "you've gone an' done me in."

The otter pups laughed at his antics.

"I suppose that'll be one less mouth to feed then, as well as an end to the snoring."

Drake opened one eye. "For your cooking, I think I'll manage to stick around a while longer."

Genevieve had the feeling this sort of performance was a daily affair for the Ruddertail house.

After everyone had settled, Genevieve was invited back for dinner at sunset, an offer she readily accepted. Until that time, she decided to explore Waterside on her own.

The center of the residential area was comprised of a small marketplace, bordered by shops and the carts of merchants. Everything that a village could need was available: tools, food, clothing, and other odds and ends.

A particular aroma caught Genevieve's attention, and she followed the scent to one of the shops where she found an apron-clad otter pulling loaves of bread from the oven. The shelves around the shop held similar loaves, set out to cool. An assortment of scones, muffins, and cakes were also displayed.

"Hello there," the otter greeted Genevieve, "we don't get many visitors. Is there something I can interest you in?"

"It all smells so good," Genevieve said, her mouth watering. "You wouldn't happen to be Hildee by any chance?"

"I am," Hildee replied. "Has somebeast been telling tales about me?"

Genevieve pulled the wooden carving from her bag and handed it to Hildee. "Benthree sent this with me, for your birthday."'

Hildee smiled, adoring the figurine as she held it in her paws. "What a darling, I'll have to pay him a visit soon. Thank you for bringing it all this way, dear." After placing the carving on a shelf next to other similar ornaments, she turned back to Genevieve. "So what brings you down to Waterside?"

"To be honest, I don't really know. I was told I needed to venture out into the lake by someone I've never met. No clue what awaits me there, but following a riddle at least gave me some direction. Any idea on how to get to the center of the lake? Otters have boats, right?"

Hildee nodded. "Yes, but they're only rafts that we punt along the shallows for fishing. Nothing that will get you close to the center of the lake."

"How about the shrews? I've heard they have boats."

"They could get you there, but they loath taking orders from strangers. You'd have to barter for passage, and their services to not come cheaply."

"I haven't got much," Genevieve said, examining her few possessions. "What do shrews usually want?"

"Food and ale, for the most part. Some of them also like smoking the ditchweed that grows wild around here, but that doesn't really help you much." Hildee paused and thought for a minute. "They are partial to making wagers and having contests: arm wrestling, boat racing, things like that."

"Contests, eh? Well, that's something at least."

For several days, Genevieve made her temporary home at Waterside, sleeping in a hammock hanging in the storage room of Hildee's bakery. She divided her time between helping Hildee at her shop and spending time with Fernin's family, playing with her two pups for hours. They taught her all sorts of games, games she probably would have played as a child, had her life been normal.

One morning, long after sunrise, Genevieve awoke and dropped out of her hammock, yawning and smoothing down her ruffled as she walked to the nearby creek to wash up. Through her blurry, sleep-filled eyes, she saw that a large tent had sprung up overnight. The shrews had arrived.

The otters of Waterside and the shrews mingled freely throughout the day. Around lunchtime, Hildee escorted Genevieve to the shrew's main tent, pointing out the most prominent shrews who could help her on her journey. The chief of the shrew's, their Log-a-Log, was named Brekk. From what Genevieve could see, he seemed to be a friendly fellow, playing with the shrew dibbuns. He also had a son named Dray who was a grumpier disposition; his big and burly build making him look more badger than shrew.

"Wait here a moment," Hildee told Genevieve, "I've got a few friends I'll talk too." Hildee waded through the crowd of shrews, none of whom were more than waist-high on her.

When Hildee returned, she had good news for Genevieve. "My friends tell me there's an ongoing contest for the title of strongest shrew. Dray is the current holder of the title, no surprises there. Anyone can challenge him, but you'll have to wager something. It doesn't have to be anything grand, just something. Also, the type of challenge is always log-pulling."

"I don't think that will be a problem."

"Best address him later tonight, after he's got some ale in his belly. Might loosen him up a bit, or make him twice as surely, either-or."

That evening, the otters and shrews had a celebration for the sake of celebrating, preparing a feast the likes of which Genevieve had never seen. Genevieve decided to be stealthy, slowly mingling through different groups of shrews, drawing closer to the table where Dray sat next to his father.

When she finally reach the table, Genevieve put on an air of confidence and leaned on the table, looking directly at Dray. "I hear that you're the strongest shrew in these parts."

"S'right mousey, what's it to ya'," Dray slurred out, partially inebriated.

"I've always thought myself the strongest as well. How about a little contest?"

Dray laughed. "A little mousey like you? I wouldn't waste my time."

"I see. You're afraid." Genevieve used the words she knew could push most males into action.

Angrily, Dray stood up and pounded his fists on the table. "You wanna lose that badly? Fine. Log-pulling, tomorrow at morning, the beach over there."

"Fine by me. Be sure to get your beauty rest. You could use it." Geneveive was sure Dray was about to throw a bottle at her as she walked away, only stopped by the firm hand of Log-a-Log Brekk.

The following morning, Genevieve was up at sunrise and waited at the beach for Dray to make his appearance. A large crowd of shrews with a few otters mixed in had formed. Hildee had not been exaggerating when she said the shrews liked contests.

Two logs equal in size had been placed on the beach and had a loop of rope affixed to the end. Log-a-Log Brekk walked twenty paces from the logs and shoved a long stick into the stand, marking out the finish line where he stood with two elder shrews to act as judges. When Dray emerged from the crowd, the rules were announced.

"The contest to take place here is log-pulling. The current champion will go first, pulling a weighted log twenty paces. The challenger will then pull a more heavily-weighted log twenty paces. Weight will continue to be added to both logs until one participant cannot reach the goal. Failure to reach twenty paces or pull a heavier log than the other participant results in loss.

"The wagers from the competitors are: From Dray, current champion, the medallion and title of the champion log-hauler. From the challenger, Genevieve, her reed flute. Do both challengers accept these wagers?"

Both Dray and Genevieve nodded and the contest began.

Dray wasted no time getting started. He chose some of his friends to sit on his log. Wrapping the rope around his paws, he gave a mighty heave and started his progression towards the mark. He made a show of the event, grunting and growling dramatically until he crossed the line, receiving cheers and applause from his supporters.

The intention of the contest, Genevieve devised, was to slowly increase the weight on the log, tiring down your opponent. Guessing at the combined weight of the log and Dray's friends, she determined she could have fairly easily hauled a slightly heavier load. However, in interest of settling matters quickly and scoring a definitive win, Genevieve decided to go all-out in her first move. She called over the otter Drake, who had been watching from the crowd. He sat on Genevieve's log along with as many fat shrews as she could find. In total, the weight she would be pulling was twice as much as a pallet of bricks from the Fortress.

With the rope behind her, Genevieve pulled with every muscle in her body at once. Her paws sank deep into the sand with every step. Progress was slow, but nonetheless existent. Genevieve felt as though her arms would tear off, but continued to push forward. After an agonizing amount of time, she reached her mark and fell to her knees in the sand, receiving applause louder than Dray's.

"That's a trick," Dray loudly scoffed. "No way a mousemaid could really haul that much."

"You think that?" Genevieve replied, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Tell you what, if you can pull my log another five paces, I'll forfeit."

Grinning confidently, Dray swaggered up to Genevieve's log and prepared to pull. Log-a-Log Brekk quickly measured out five additional paces and stood by with the other judges. Dray pulled and tugged and heaved until he was screaming, but the log wouldn't move an inch. The sturdy shrew collapsed to the ground, gasping for breath.

After a quick conference with the judges, Log-a-Log Brekk stepped forward and presented Genevieve with Dray's medal, earning her another round of thunderous applause.

The last thing Genevieve remembered before she collapsed from exhaustion was looking at the polished bronze medallion and seeing her mirrored face staring back at her.

Genevieve awoke back in the bakery, laid out on Hildee's bed. "I'm making a habit of this," she thought to herself as she gingerly stood up.

"Hey there," Hilde said as Genevieve entered the front of the shop. "Glad to see you're up. It's almost noon. The shrews are mighty impressed by you, save for Dray. He's been stewing for awhile now, my mum would say he's got a bee in his bonnet."

"Good. I'll give him a few more hours and then start part two of my plan."

"I wasn't even aware there was a part one... or a plan."

"I'm more or less making it up as I go."

Come evening, all the otters had returned to their homes (save those who ventured to the tavern) and the shrews to their tents with the intention of leaving in the morning.

Quietly entering the shrews' tent, Genevieve sought out Dray to extend an offer.

"Whatta you want?" he huffed when Genevieve approached him.

"Simple, I need transportation. Get me out to the middle of the lake and I'll give you back your medal."

Dray choked on his drink, laughing. "You wanna die that badly? Just chuck tie yer'self to a rock an' chuck yer'self in the lake."

"Why? What's in the middle of the lake?"

"Cursed island, that's what. Haunted by the Yulaybaga."

"The Yula-what?"

"Vengeful ghosts. Beasts who died in the lake. It's their island. Nobeast goes there."

Genevieve rolled her eyes at the superstitious creature. "Do you want your medal back or not?"

"Fine, fine. I'll get you there, mousey. But don't expect me to stick around for your funeral."

The entire company of shrews broke camp the following morning. The majority were planning on following the shore to one of their more permanent camps, but Dray and a few of his friends would be making a detour to the island before making a rendezvous with the others.

Dray's boat was a sturdy craft, thick hulled and free of leaks. Floats on either side provided additional stability when the lake was restless. With Genevieve as a passenger, it could hold four additional shrew paddlers.

The journey was easy enough for Genevieve. She didn't have to do any paddling, so she was content to rest in the bow of the boat, letting her paws dangle in the water. Few words were exchanged between Genevieve and the shrews, which did not bother her at all. After a day of paddling, the island came into view, sticking out from the water like the head of some ancient behemoth.

The boat ran aground with a soft bump, and Genevieve grabbed her supplies and jumped onto the beach. As expected, the shrews paddled back out into the lake and made a quick retreat from the island.

Lacking any sense of which direction she was supposed to go, Genevieve decided to wander the shore until dark. Meandering up and down the beach, she saw no sign of any other creatures inhabiting the island.

Sunset came quickly. Taking shelter amongst the trees growing just above the beach, Genevieve made a small campfire and improvised a ten using a few sticks and her cloak. The soft ground made an excellent bed, and Genevieve was soon asleep.

A loud howling roused her from her slumber. The moon was shining bright above her, and the sounds of crickets filled the night. Before Genevieve could get full bearings on her surroundings, the howl rang out again.

"YUUUUUUUU-LAAAAAAAAAY-BAAAAAAAAA!"

It was coming from out on the shore. Hiding in the underbrush, Genevieve looked out toward the beach and discovered the source of the noise. Half-a-dozen shapeless forms wafted down the beach, howling as they went. As the group passed by, Genevieve made her move. Seizing a stone from the ground, she swiftly and silently fell in behind the group. She flung the stone toward the closest specter, hitting it in the back about waist-height.

"Bloody-flippin-yowch!" yelped the figure as it dancing around before tripping over, causing the luminescent sheet it wore to fall away, revealing a tall, gangly hare in his late adolescence. The other figures turned around and shifted around awkward before tentatively howling, "Yuuuu-laaaaaay…"

"Knock it off," Genevieve interrupted. "Not going to work."

The five figures ripped off their sheets, revealing themselves to be hares as well.

"Good going, Starbuck," a young female scolded Genevieve's victim. "Way to remain in character."

"Not my fault, Breeze," Starbuck muttered, rubbing his back where the stone had hit him. "Nobeast told me to expect stones peltin' from the bloody heavens."

"Watch your language," Breeze chided before turning her attention to Genevieve. "Now you…" she paused and gave Genevieve a curious look. "...come with me. Wother, you run ahead and tell Mum...tell Lupin we're bringing a guest."

More curious than anything else, Genevieve walked alongside the hares through a narrow path in the woods. Behind them, the young hare Starbuck wiped away their pawtracks with a fir branch.

After a walk through the thickest part of the woods, Genevieve and her escort emerged into a large clearing. Like Waterside, the houses were mostly shack-like, but these were, for the most part, identical to each other, efficiently and solidly constructed. It was early in the night, but already the village was quiet; most of the residents had retired until dawn.

At the center of the island village was a ship, the type one would expect to see on the oceans, not in the middle of an island. This ship appeared to be the destination the hares had in mind, and they led her up a series of ramps rising from the ground to the main deck of the ship. At the stern, beneath the quarterdeck, she was ushered into what would have been the captain's cabin. Sitting at the desk was a hare whom Genevieve could only describe as motherly.

The seated hare examined Genevieve with a critical eye before dismissing the rest of the hares.

"Have a seat," she offered, indicating the chair in front of her desk. After Genevieve made herself comfortable, she continued. "My name is Lupin. I am the leader of this colony. I hope you can forgive us for the less than amicable reception you encountered."

"I've faced worse. But who are you all? What is this place?"

"In time, your questions will be answered, but first, tell me, why have you come here Miss…"

"Genevieve. Honestly, I don't know. I was set to be executed for striking one of the Warlord's soldiers. Before I escaped, I was told to come here."

"By whom?"

"I don't know that either. I never saw his face. When I got out of my cell, he was gone. But I didn't have any other plan, and from what he said, this place sounded safe. Safer, anyway. Now you tell me, why the ghosts and howling?"

"We value our privacy and safety. The shrews are good folk, and we had no desire to hurt them, so we...fabricated a little story to discourage visitors."

"But not me?"

Lupin stood up and paced around behind her desk. "Tell me Genevieve, do you believe in fate and destiny?"

"No."

"Really? So you believe you have complete control over your life?"

"Hardly," Genevieve scoffed. "I grew up a slave. I've never had much control over anything. As far as I'm concerned, life just...happens. No purpose or higher plan."

"What if I told you fate brought you here."

"My paws brought me here...and some shrews."

Lupin smiled and opened a drawer in the desk. She pulled out a stone tablet and placed in on the desk. The stone itself looked very old, but the carvings in it were recent, no more than a score of seasons old, at most. "Can you read?"

"Not very well. Mama...my mother taught me a little before she died."

"These carvings are copies from those in the halls of Salamandastron, home of the Badger Lords. The originals were carved by Boar the Fighter, many seasons ago. This copy was made by Lord Hadron, last of the Badger Lords, just days before Salamandastron fell. He entrusted them to me, as I was not taking part in the battle for the sake of my young ones."

"What does it say?"

"It does not read as eloquently as other prophecies; I believe this was written in great haste, possibly right before Boar the Fighter died. It says:

 _A Mouse_

 _The Daughter of Nobility_

 _With an Eye touched by the Moon_

 _Heed the Cry of the Oppressed_

 _Break the Sword of the North-Born Tyrant_

"I believe that this refers to you, Genevieve. It's plain to see you're a mouse, and you have a 'moon-touched' eye. That patch of fur is obvious to all. Tell me of your parents."

"We were slaves, far from nobility!" Genevieve exclaimed. "My mother had been a healer. Sure, my father called himself a prince, but that doesn't make him one!"

"A prince in his own mind, maybe, but a prince nonetheless."

"This is ridiculous. You think I'm some sort of savior for this land? How? I've never even held a sword before!"

"That, I can fix." Lupin assured, walking to a cabinet in the corner. Opening the door, she pulled out a sword in a black scabbard. The hilt was simple and unadorned, with a handle large enough to be comfortably used with one or two paws. When Lupin drew the blade, Genevieve was at a loss for words. Though the handle was plain, the blade itself was a jewel, and it seemed to glow in the candlelight.

"In the days of Boar the Fighter, I found the metal of a fallen star. I brought it to my Lord and he forged this, possibly the most magnificent weapon I have ever seen. He gave it to me along with the tablet, and instructed me to give it to the creature from the prophecy."

"I think you're out of your mind," Genevieve said angrily. "I don't know who sent me on this damn fool's errand or why, but I've had enough of this. I'm leaving."

"You're going to abandon your calling?" Lupin yelled, her temper rising. Gone was the motherly figure Genevieve had initially seen. "You've seen the damage the Warlord has done. How can you ignore it!?"

"I'm not a fighter! Nobeast can stand up to his armies! Best to just let him age and die!"

"In how many more score of seasons? Think of all he could do in that time! Are you able to live with that!? Fate has called a champion and that is you!"

"You can't make me fight." Genevieve started toward the door.

"There are no boats on this island."

"Then I'll swim, or chop down a tree and float to shore. I don't care."

Lupin's strong paw grabbed her from behind by the collar of her clothing and lifted her up. Kicking and struggling, Genevieve tried to break free, but to no avail. A few heads poked out of windows as Lupin carried her past the village and into the woods, farther from the shore.

"What are you doing!?"

"Helping you get some clarity."

Lupin brought Genevieve into a cave in a hillside and gently dropped her on the stone floor. In the center of the chamber was a lit brazier. The hare ripped a pawful of moss from the cave wall and through it in the flame.

"Maybe you know someone who can talk some sense into you."

Genevieve tried to respond, but the smoke from the burning moss made her dizzy. The world was spinning.

Then it was still, and the world was gone, replaced by an endless, grey fog.

"Hello," Genevieve called out as she wandered through the fog. "Lupin, are you there?" As she was turning about, trying to get some sense of direction, she almost ran directly into a tall, iron fence.

"You do not belong here," said a deep voice.

Genevieve turned and saw an enormous black fox, leaning against the fence.

"Where am I?" Genevieve asked timidly, frightened of the intimidating fox.

"The gates of the Dark Forest," the fox whispered. "You do not belong here."

"We get the point, bossy-foxy," said another voice, this one friendly, warm, and familiar. "Just give us a few minutes and then she'll leave."

Genevieve turned around and recognized the speaker. "Papa!" she cried, running to embrace her father. He was the same as ever: round and plump, with a spring in his step and his feathered cap at a jaunty angle. "I've missed you so much, Papa." She sobbed into his shoulder while he held her. "Is Mama here too."

"Of course," he said, smiling. "Both her and your brother. They must be taking their time, ah, here they are."

Out of the fog came her mother and the brother of whom she had few memories. She rushed to her mother, crying all over again.

When she had calmed down, she explained everything that was going on.

"...so Lupin thinks I'm supposed to be some sort of great warrior and that I'm going to fight the Warlord, but I can't. I'm not a warrior. How can I possibly do anything?"

"Little Firefly," her father said, using his pet name for her, "I know you're afraid, and there's no shame in that. Your mother and I greatly feared the Warlord when we lived, but we also feared for your brother and you. That is why we resisted him, to try to make this land a better place for you, our children. You are much stronger than you think, Genevieve, and you have a very powerful heart burning inside you. You won't be alone in this. There will be allies to fight by your side in plenty."

Genevieve's mother stepped forward. "We love you very much, darling. You could help so many by taking up this cause, but whatever you decide, we'll be proud of you."

The giant fox shifted behind her. "It is time for you to leave." The world started to fade around her.

"We love you, Little Firefly," her father called out. "Try not to come and visit too soon."

When Genevieve awoke, it was morning, and light was streaming into the cave.

"Was that a dream," Genevieve though as she pulled herself up, "or did that really happen?"

Stumbling back to the village of hares, Genevieve headed toward the ship. She entered Lupin's quarters and leaned over her desk.

"Alright. Give me the bloody sword."

Training in the art of swordplay began the next day. Lupin, a swordmaster of Salamandastron, personally oversaw her instruction. Every day, there were new techniques, new maneuvers, and new styles to learn. Occasionally, Lupin would bring in another hare to teach different skills: unarmed combat, tracking, ambushes, among others. A few times, Lupin took her to meet with one of the other inhabitants of the island, the smoke-colored foxes who also dwelled in the village. According to Lupin, they had been there when the hares first arrived. There had been conflict at first, but the two had eventually become accustomed to each other's presence.

"It's very unusual for me," Lupin had explained, "living with the foxes. It was so much simpler back at Salamandastron when it was always woodlanders versus the vermin. Now, one of my daughter's best friends is a fox. This is a rapidly changing world we live in."

In addition to her training, Genevieve took time to learn to play the reed flute she had kept. She enjoyed taking some time to herself, sitting on the beach and working out a tune while she listened to the sounds of the lake. Her first few attempts were less than stellar, and usually ended with seabirds angrily squawking at her before flying away.

When autumn arrived, Genevieve felt a longing to return to the shore and visit those she had met on her journey. With Lupin's blessing, she prepared a small vessel for herself: a small raft with a sail. When the wind was favorable, she made the voyage across the lake to Waterside. Hildee was happy to see her safe, having worried about her ever since she had departed.

Traveling upriver, she stopped again at the hut of the three Bens. Benthree was as energetic and ridiculous as ever, and Benone maintained his usual level of verbosity.

Genevieve found herself spending most of her time with Bentwo, letting the day waste away as they watched the clouds and talked. During a pause in their conversation, Genevieve pulled out her flute and began to play a tune she had been working on. It was a light and happy sound, with a flowing rhythm reminiscent of a leaf drifting on the wind.

Bentwo listened intently as Genevieve played. "That was b-beautiful," he said when she finished. "What's it c-c-called?"

"It's a song a remember my father singing. There are lyrics, but I'm not a good singer."

"Please," Bentwo begged. "Please s-sing it for me."

At Ben's insistence, Genevieve sang as best she good. She was an adequate singer, slightly off key, but still competent.

 _I'm a mouse with a very long tail,_

 _With a heart and a voice to match._

 _I've escaped from the Warlord' gaol._

 _They'll find me hard to catch._

 _So, away through the grass, the flow'rs and leaves,_

 _Like smoke on the breeze, the Prince of Thieves._

 _Let's cheer for the day when we will see_

 _The Mossflower Country safe and free._

When Genevieve returned to the island, her training continued. Seasons passed.

In the spring, after the ice on the lake had melted, Lupin announced that Genevieve's training was at an end. "You have learned everything that we can teach you. I think you will be a match for the Warlord. What happens now is up to you."

"I'm going to head north," Genevieve stated, having been planning for some time. "I need to start disassembling what the Warlord has built. There have to be remnants of rebellion out there. I'll find them and set them back on the path."

Lupin nodded. "A sound plan."

"The migratory birds have also brought word of a rumored free village in the north, ignored by the Warlord and his forces. I need to find out why. My plan is to head north from here on foot, rousing whatever resistance I can. I'll head east once I reach the thick of Mossflower to avoid the Crimson Fortress."

The Fortress. It had been ages since Genevieve had thought about it. Was it finished at this point? What had become of the slaves she had grown up with?

Placing the thoughts in the back of her mind, she continued to elaborate on her plans. "Based on what you've told me, there are smugglers running out of caves on the eastern coast. I'll see if I can barter passage from there to the Northlands. After I get answers, well, I suppose I'll be off to face the Warlord."

The next morning, Genevieve departed from the island.

"Send word when you are ready," Lupin called out as Genevieve's raft floated away. "We will make the armies of the Warlord remember the Long Patrol!"

Benthree was in Waterside when Genevieve arrived. He and Hildee were to be married soon.

"Keep a close eye on that one," Genevieve warned Hildee, "or he'll scoff down everything in your shop."

She made a final visit to the Bens' hut. She told Betwo what her plan was and where she'd be going.

"P-p-please be careful," he pleaded. "I don't w-want to lose you."

A moment of silence passed before the two mice embraced and joined in a passionate kiss.

"I l-l-love you," Bentwo whispered.

Filled with sadness, Genevieve departed, vowing that she would return one day.

She abandoned her raft at the waterfall she had once plummeted from. There was no point in hauling it from here. It was beyond her to drag it up a cliff, in any case. Disguising it was equally pointless. It was possible she would never even be back again. Maybe some other creature could make use of it before it rotted away to nothing.

Genevieve spent the rest of the spring in Mossflower, sowing whatever seeds of resistance that she could. In the thick woods, ambushes against patrols and supply caravans were most effective. Snares hidden in the brush could entangle soldiers' paws; hidden pits in the road could destroy wagons of supplies. It was during one of these skirmishes that Genevieve first killed. It was a ferret, male, mostly white with patches of black around his eyes. He had been getting ready to put his spear through a squirrel who had fallen from the treetops. Genevieve's sword through his chest had killed him almost instantly with little pain or suffering. It wasn't an easy thing to do, but Lupin had warned Genevieve what killing felt like, and so she had managed to prepare mentally to some small extent.

The ferret was buried along with the rest of the dead. Who was he? Did he have a wife? Children? "Dammit," Genevieve muttered, shoving her emotions down. "Once the Warlord is gone, all of this can end."

By the end of spring, the rebels of Mossflower knew enough to keep the Warlord's forces on their toes, so Genevieve moved on. She gave the Crimson Fortress a wide berth on her journey northward. Though she wanted badly to free those poor slaves who still toiled away inside, it would take more than one mouse to topple those walls.

The midland plains north of Mossflower were sparsely populated. An occasional farming town or a few camps of nomads scattered over the sea of grass made finding willing rebels difficult. Some required a little prodding, but eventually a rebel force of adequate size was assembled. Thankfully, the presence of the Warlord on the plains was minimal. Though some of the mountains at the northern end held a few camps, the only target worth considering was a palisade fort built around what was likely the only hill in the region. With only two or three-score beasts assigned there, it was lightly defended, and these creatures were usually those that were not considered competent enough to be placed in any vital position.

"What do you mean there aren't any lookouts?" Genevieve demanded of Lili, the hare who had been scouting ahead in preparation for the attack. Lili was young, but enthusiastic. She was from one of the clans of nomad hares who wandered the plains and was very familiar with the lay of the land.

"There ain't a single guard in sight. No heads peakin' over the wall or nothin'."

"Well, that at least makes things easier for us. I knew this wouldn't be difficult, but what are they thinking, placing no guards? They might as well have left the door open for us."

"Ummm…"

"They left the gate open, didn't they?"

What resulted was a battle in name only. The entirety of the company at the palisade was half-unconscious from the effects of an overindulgence of ale. A last minute change to a stealth attack had done wonders for the rebellion. When they awoke the next morning, the soldiers found their station in complete disarray.

"Give me a report!" the sour-tempered hedgehog commander bellowed at anyone in earshot.

Multiple voices shouted out one after another.

"All the food's been taken!"

"The armory had been burned to the ground!"

"The doors are missing!"

The last statement gave the commander pause. "What!?"

"It's gone, sir," an equally confused soldier reported. "Both doors. Popped right off the hinges and taken who-knows-where."

Leaving the continued torment of the soldiers in the capable paws of the Midlanders, Genevieve made her way east to the coast, looking for the den of smugglers that could take her to the Northlands.

Naturally, the cave was difficult to find. Smugglers who didn't know how to hide didn't stay in business very long.

Walking along the beach beneath a towering cliff-face, Genevieve heard a slight echo coming from the rock. She pressed her ear up against the stones and followed the noise until she found a fissure in the cliff, almost invisible unless viewed from the proper angle. For a creature of Genevieve's size, the crack was wide enough to comfortably walk through. Not wanting to enter another's den unannounced, she shouted out a friendly 'hello' before stepping out into the open.

A spacious cavern greeted her. Dominating the middle was a pool of clear water. Boxes and crates of supplies were stacked along the back wall, and small dwellings were spread throughout. Also greeting her were half-a-dozen spear points.

The otters behind the spears looked rough and fierce, far different from the whimsical and playful denizens of Waterside that Genevieve was familiar with.

"Hello to you too," Genevieve commented dryly.

"What do you want, mouse?" a tall male otter covered in scars and tattoos demanded.

"I've been looking for you smugglers. I need passage to the Northlands. "

The spears remained pointed at her. "How do we know you're not with the Warlord?"

Genevieve pulled a draw-string pouch from her belt and turned it over. A dozen brass badges, officers' insignia, tumbled onto the cave floor and clattered around. "The Warlord and I don't exactly see eye to eye."

"So yer the one who's been giving him all sorts of grief in Mossflower."

"Indeed. Now could you point those sticks elsewhere."

The spears tentatively lowered and the otters bearing them went off, leaving Genevieve and the tattooed otter alone.

"Passage northward, eh?" the otter began, "That we can do, but for a price. What have you got?"

"Information." Genevieve pulled a hand-drawn map from a pocket in her cloak and unfolded it. "Patrols and shipping lanes used by the Warlord. Days and times are indicated."

"Impressive," the otter said as he inspected the map. "Where'd you get all this?"

"I have my sources. Do we have a deal?"

"Deal, the otter agreed, "information in exchange for passage to the Northlands. We have a small dinghy heading that way in two days, piloted by my brother, Starwort."

The two days of waiting in the smugglers' den reminded Genevieve of the slave village in Mossflower more than she wanted to think about. The cave was a dreary place, filled with the sound of water drops splashing into the central pool from the stalactites above. The otter dibbuns were unnaturally quiet, having spent their lives hiding from the Warlord.

Starwort, at the very least, was much friendlier. Genevieve suspected that the freedom of the seas did wonders for one's outlook. True to his brother's word, the dinghy was small, barely large enough to hold Starwort and Genevieve both in addition to the cargo of fabric piled between the seats. There was very little for Genevieve to do, so she contented herself with laying back and watching the skies, imagining she was a cloud. Occasionally, she would engage Starwort in a amiable conversation.

"So you've got a bone to pick with the Warlord?" he asked her.

"Doesn't everyone? I've got nothing personal against him, but his reign needs to end, for everyone's sake."

"Did ya know I met him once? Back before he was Lord Martin and was just Martin, or Martin the Warrior. He was a nice bloke, traveling with his friends to oust a tyrant from the eastern shores. We'll pass by the place in a few hours. I'll point it out to you."

In the mid afternoon, Genevieve spotted a cliff, rising from the shore.

"Up there was Fortress Marshank. Not much to see now, nothing but foundations left. Martin had it torn down seasons ago. Makes sense I suppose, him hating the place, growing up a slave and all."

"He was a slave?"

"From what I remember. Though I never did much talking with him."

"Oh, Martin" Genevieve thought to herself as she watched the sea roll by, "whatever made you go so wrong?"

North past the fortress was a series of caves, which Starwort said used to be inhabited by pygmy shrews but now housed a crew of otters. Genevieve helped them unload the fabric from the dinghy before bidding Starwort a farewell.

Several leagues inland was a road, paved with stones and heavily trafficked by the populace of the Northland. Genevieve decided to risk traveling the Warlord's Highway, but kept her sword carefully hidden beneath her cloak. The middle portion of the road running through a marsh was only partially constructed. The bridges spanning the muddy ground currently led into nothing, but temporary paths formed by fallen trees led travelers through safely.

One night, while resting at her cooking fire, a visitor wandered up to her camp.

"Excuse me," the young owl asked, "might I spend the night here? I'm afraid my flight this day has tired me out dreadfully."

"Don't owls usually sleep in the day?"

"I find daytime flights more conducive to map-making."

"You're a map maker?"

"It is my family's trade. I am Emalet, daughter of Boldred and Hortwingle."

"Genevive. Would it be fair to assume you know this land well?"

"I would certainly hope so."

I'm looking for a village that I've heard spoken of in rumors. A place hidden away from the rest of the world. Do you know of such a place?"

"Ah, yes," Emalet hooted. "My mother would take me there for visits in my youth. What you seek is Noonvale, the village of peace. Alas, it is no longer much of a village. Many have abandoned it for more distant lands."

"Still, I'd like to see it. Can you give me directions?"

"Continue following the road, but leave it once you pass the mountain. Follow the Broadstream River to the south. There is a very narrow creek that runs through a patch of willows. Follow that, and you will eventually come upon a glade nestled in the heart of a valley. There you will find Noonvale."

The mouse and the owl parted at sunrise. Genevieve stayed true to Emalet's directions and made her way to Noonvale. As the owl had described, the place was empty. Ruins of what must have once been beautiful houses swayed ominously as the wind caused the burnt-out husks to creak and groan.

There were no creatures present. No farmers discussing the weather, no mothers singing to their babes, no children playing in the streets.

"It's sad, isn't it?" said a voice from behind, causing Genevieve to jump and reach for her sword. "Fear not, I mean you no harm." The creature was a mouse like Genevieve. He was starting to grey in the whiskers, clearly entering his middle seasons, but his eyes were still bright and full of life. His headfur was long and tied up into braids, and his nose had been broken at some point in the past.

"Who are you? What happened to this place?" Genevieve enquired of the stranger.

"Brome, son of Urran Voh, chieftain, healer, and sole resident of Noonvale. As to what happened to this place, I guess you could say we grew tired of being suffocated. Martin's forces always gave this place a wide berth, but all around us he carried out his horrid acts of destruction. This was a village of peace, and many could not stand being caught in the center of Martin's madness. They went to greener pastures, far away from this land. Now I am the last. I too wish to leave, but remain to offer healing and sanctuary to any who pass by."

"You call him Martin. You knew him personally?"

"I did, if only for a short time."

"What made him as he is? I heard from an otter named Starwort that he was not always a tyrant."

"You've met Starwort? That's good. I'm glad he's still alive. Martin's change in behavior? When I was younger, I used to think it was my sister's death at the hands of a tyrant that did it to him, but now I think that it was just a stepping stone along the way. Martin suffered much in his youth, losing both of his parents and then growing up a slave. When Rose died, I believe all the pain finally caused him to snap. Seasons ago, at the start of this bloody reign of destruction, I visited him in Mountaintown, hoping to find the mouse I practically worshipped when I was younger, but he was gone. The same rage that killed a friend of mine has claimed him. I doubt there is any chance of redemption for him now."

"I lost my parents when I was young as well," Genevieve told Brome. "I was one of the _laborers_ made to build a fortress for the Warlord's army, but I hold no thoughts of vengeance. It may have been his soldiers and his policies that made me suffer, but I do not blame him. A few seasons ago, all I cared about was escaping and taking care of myself, but my journey made me see the horrors of the Warlord. I've come to the Northlands to remove him and hopefully put an end to this madness."

"A small mercy, perhaps," Brome commented. "At least his suffering will be at an end."

Genevieve stayed the night with the healer-mouse, listening to his talk of the past and what might have been. When it came time for her to depart, she offered Brome a gift as thanks for his hospitality.

"If you'd like, you may have my flute. I may not be getting much more use out of it."

Brome shook his head and politely declined. "It would take me long to learn, and singing has always been my family's talent."

Genevieve returned to the road carved through the landscape, but remained off the path itself, concealing herself in the woodlands. Traveling over rough terrain to Mountaintown would have taken most of a season, but taking the road reduced the journey to just over a week.

The mountain was an intimidating sight to behold. Rising up from the cold, frosted earth, the stoney behemoth pierced the clouds and rose to heights unknown. Mountaintown itself was nestled between two ridges, and the south side was closed off by a wall which, though impressive, was nothing compared to the walls of the Crimson Fortress.

The gates were open for the day; creatures freely entered and exited under the watchful eyes of the Warlord's gatekeepers. The town was clean and orderly, but the atmosphere subdued, not to the extent of the smuggler's den, but a definite melancholy air had settled upon the townsfolk.

An immediate strike upon Lord Martin would have been foolish, so Genevieve repeated what she had done in Mossflower and the Midlands, finding support and instigating rebellion.

She started small, causing accidents, leaving grafitti, things that could be written off or ignored, but nonetheless caught the attention of the Warlord.

Over time, her efforts escalated and began to include multiple strikes. After starting a fire in the soldiers' mess hall, the resistance finally managed to become a legitimate threat in the Warlord's eyes.

Posters promising rewards for turning in rebels soon went up, but were promptly torn down. Increased patrols were met with crude traps and ambushes that, though nonlethal, were nonetheless annoying.

The attacks continued throughout the autumn and winter, causing the Warlord to escalate matters furthers, sending soldiers to search and inspect every home in Mountaintown and interrogate the residents. Resentment began to grow in Mountaintown, and more rebels joined Genevieve's cause.

When the spring came, Genevieve decided it was time for one final strike, not just against Mountaintown and the Warlord, but against all forces everywhere. Consulting with the messenger birds she had recruited, Genevieve had them fly out to as many friendly camps she knew of, including the rebels in Mossflower, the smugglers on the coast, and the hares of the lake island. The birds delivered instructions to cause as much havoc as possible against the Warlord's forces when the next full moon was at its apex in the sky.

The night before the final attack, Genevieve was lying on the roof of her safehouse, watching the stars. She had often done this as a child, staring off into the endless night, dreaming of flying away from the captivity she endured. The next night, she would either be free or dead.

The day was spent in quiet preparation: checking her sword, laying out final plans, and secreting the innocent away from town. Genevieve wanted to reduce the number of casualties as much as possible.

At midnight, everyone was in position, ready for Genevieve to give them her signal. With the help of some of the more scholarly rebels, she had produce a device to alert everyone at once. On the roof of her safehouse, she stood a small, hollow log upright. A string dipped in lantern oil hung away from the log. If the scholars were right, everybeast within a league would be able to see and hear it.

Using a candle, Genevieve lit the crude fuse and quickly dropped down from the roof. After a few seconds, there was a loud bang and a blur of motion as the package stuffed inside the log flew into the sky. A moment later, an equally loud bang echoed through the night as a burst of white sparks spread across the sky.

Just as a spark can ignite a droughted forest, so too did Genevieve's firework ignite Mountaintown. Chaos erupted immediately. Buildings were set alight, guards, caught by surprise, had their weapons ripped from their paws. Skirmishes broke out on every street as soldiers fought the citizens who had grown tired of their presence. Even creatures who had not been affiliated with the rebels took up improvised weapons and joined the fray.

Genevieve spent an equal amount of time in and out of battle. One moment charging into a crowd of soldiers and the next dashing through the streets, sending rebels to where they were needed. Hours into the battle, she took her leave and made her way to the main avenue leading to the Warlord's keep. It was not a castle or any sort of impressive fortress, but a large yet modest home.

Two of the Warlord's body guards tried to stop her from entering the longhouse, but she quickly dispatched them when they refused to stand down.

The doors opened into a long hall. Decorative tapestries on the walls and exquisitely woven rugs on the floor together with the fires roaring in the fireplaces would have made the place cozy, had it not been for the purpose of Genevieve's visit.

A dozen or so creatures stood nervously huddled at the end of the hall, advisors and subordinates to the Warlord.

Genevieve shrugged her cloak aside and drew her sword, tossing the scabbard away. "Where is he?"

"I assume you're the one responsible for all the trouble in these lands?" the mouse answered her, coming in from a side chamber.

He was far less impressive than Genevieve had expected. He was getting old, his fur and whiskers had started to turn grey, his overall appearance was haggard, and his face was gaunt. His grey eyes were devoid of all feeling.

"I would say it's you who are responsible for the trouble." Genevieve spat back.

"Here to kill me?" Martin asked casually. "Many have tried, though few in open combat. Poison, assassination, ambush. All have failed. So what have I done to bring you here?"

"It's nothing personal. You just have to be destroyed."

"A lone hero on a noble quest. Those rarely end as well as you hope."

"Enough of this nonsense. Draw your sword."

Martin took up his longsword and strolled to the center of the room. "Such a pretty thing, I would hate to kill you."

"Then just stand there and let me make this quick."

The deadly dance began slowly. Each fighter testing the other, checking defense, stance, reflexes, searching for openings.

The pace soon increased, and the hall was ringing with the clash of blades. Neither mouse wore armor, so both were able to quickly spring around the battlefield, lunging in for an attack and then jumping back. In terms of skill, they were equally matched and unable to score any major hits, though both had accumulated a number of scratches and cuts.

After Genevieve blocked a powerful slice, Martin lept back and started to talk. "How would you like to be a officer?"

"Are you serious?"

"With you skill, you'd make a find addition to my army. I could use a tactician to oversee my expansion southward. You'd need to be disciplined for this little incident, but you'd make a fine Major, maybe even a General some day."

"Not in this life or any other!"

Martin shook his head. "That a shame."

The duel continued with greater ferocity. The two blades locked together and rattled as the combatants attempted to force the other aside. The strength brought from seasons of labor gave Genevieve an advantage, and Martin was forced back, stumbling, but he quickly recovered and charged forward again.

The battle was decided in that instant. Genevieve saw his paws shift and his arms draw back, indicating he was going to stab. At the last moment, Genevieve stepped aside with unnatural swiftness and brought her sword down upon Martin's with all her strength.

The metal screamed as the sword of the Warlord snapped, leaving Martin holding the hilt and a few inches of blade.

Seeing his rent weapon, confusion and rage crossed the tyrant's face. His eyes glowing red, he gave a primal yell the lept at Genevieve. She slipped beneath his grasp, bringing her sword up and thrusting it through his chest.

Martin looked down at surprise at the sword sticking through him. Genevieve held the blade in place as she pushed him to a wall.

"You've...you've destroyed everything...everything I've worked for, "Martin choked as he spat up blood. Moments later he was dead. Genevieve pulled her blade free and let his corpse drop to the floor.

Exhausted from the fight, she fought to lift her blade once more and pointed it at the onlookers. "Don't make me come back here," she snarled. Half-dragging herself, she left the hall.

Outside, the chaos had calmed. There had been plenty of injuries and deaths on both sides. After telling a few of her allies what had transpired, she returned to her safehouse and collapsed on her bed.

The removal of Lord Martin from power did not transform the land overnight,at least not all of it. The Snowlands continued to exist as it had under the Warlord's rule, in a state of partial anarchy, showing the untamable nature for which the North was famous. The Midlands, likewise, never had felt a strong presence from Lord Martin, and life returned to normal quickly.

The remaining regions, the Northlands, Mossflower, and the Western Coast, broke down and were overwhelmed with power struggles between rival officers who sought to maintain their own power. Thankfully, the loss of their Lord and broken the morale of many soldiers, who left to return to their old lives where they could, or being new ones far from the creatures they had once abused.

Under the leadership of Brome, the Northlands became a relatively peaceful place. The old tribe of squirrels known as the Gawtrybe reformed and became the protectors of the forest. Noonvale was returned to its former glory and became overflowing with good, hardworking creatures.

Initially, it was thought a season of warfare would be required to reclaim Mossflower, but after a brief siege against the Crimson Fortress, the slaves held within revolted and ousted their captors. Genevieve and many others were in favor of demolishing the structure or letting it collapse, but a majority eventually decided to willingly complete the construction so that their labors would not be wasted. When it was completed, seasons later, it became a place of healing and shelter for all who came in peace. Because of the prominent towers and the distinctive color of the stones, it was renamed Redspire Abbey. Anyone who is passing by is welcome to visit.

Salamandastron was by far the most difficult conquest. Rebels from throughout the land came by land and sea to aid in the struggle. The hares of the inland lake and the remnant of the old Long Patrol reassembled to take back their mountain. In one final battle, the entirety of both forces clashed on the beach. Losses were terrible on both sides, but the rebels won the day and reclaimed Salamandastron. The last great fortress of Mossflower Country was free.

When all was done, Genevieve, slayer of the Warlord, retired from the fight. Lupin, temporary commander of the Long Patrol, offered to make her a Colonel and give her command over a regiment in Mossflower, but Genevieve declined, saying she had enough of war and was ready to return to the place she felt at home.

A soft paw on her shoulder caused the storyteller to stop her tale.

"What is it, Ben?"

"M-most of your a-a-audience is asleep, Genny."

Genevieve looked over those who sat on the floor in front of her. Just as Bentwo had said, many were fast asleep, all of the youngest and even a few of the older ones.

"What times is it?"

"Nearly m-midnight."

"Midnight!" she tried to whisper quietly. "Why didn't you stop me earlier?"

"W-we were all enjoying it s-so much w-w-we must have lost track time."

Genevieve whispered to the back, where her own children sat, "Let's get them all into bed."

Taking a grandchild into her arms, she carried the infant to a room with beds of varying sizes. Setting the dibbun down and tucking her in, she gave the little mouse a kiss on the forehead. "Goodnight little Bryony."

After all the young ones were in bed, the adults stepped back out to the main room of the hut, which had been the only room prior to its expansion.

"I suppose I'll have to finish it tomorrow. There isn't much left."

"Of course, Mum," her children said. "Though you may have to repeat what some of them were asleep for."

Her children and their spouses, almost as tired as their own children, prepared to retire to their beds.

"Kaleb," Genevieve called to her eldest, "would you help me with something?"

Genevieve led him to a wardrobe and opened it, taking down a sword that was hanging from the door. "I'd like you to have this," she said, offering the sword to Kaleb.

"Mum," Kaleb sputtered, unsure what to say, "I can't. It's...well it's your sword."

"And I'm giving it to you. I'm far to old to use it anymore."

"I...I don't know if I can take it. Are you sure I'm right for it?"

"Kaleb," Genevieve rubbed her son's back, "I've taught you and your siblings all I know, but at heart, they are farmers, healers, musicians. They have their spouses and their children. You've always been of a different sort. You have the heart of a wanderer and a fighter."

"Does this land really need a fighter?"

"Peace does not last forever," Genevieve said sadly. "There will come a time where warriors are needed. Take the sword with you on your journeys. Warriors have a way of finding those who need them."

"Yes, Mum," Kaleb said, taking the sword. "I will use it when I must, but I truly hope I never have to use it."He unsheathed a few inches of blade and examined the sword, imagining what sort of adventures it would lead him to.

Thus ends the tale of Lord Martin, Warlord of the North, Tyrant of Mossflower.

 _The last day of autumn was hot and bright as mid-summer. Still as a millpond, the sea reflected a cloudless blue sky. Seabirds wheeled and called, soaring lazily on the warm thermals above the sun-baked sands of the shore._

 _Sunflash stood for a moment, his breath taken away by the majesty of the great mountain that lay ahead of him._

 _Two hares stood shaded by a cave entrance, watching a fully grown male badger plough his way wearily across the beach toward them. He was big and dangerous looking; the fierce light in his eyes glinted off the metal tp of an immense war club which he carried easily in one paw._

 _When the two hares stepped out from the shadows, Sunflash could see that both were of a great age._

" _What do they call this place?" he asked._

 _The older of the hares, a male, answered him, "Salamandastron, the place of the fire lizard."_

 _The badger gave a huge sigh. Leaning against the rock, he rested his club on the sand._

" _I feel as if I've been here before," he said strangely._

 _The female hare produced victuals from within the cave entrance. "Rest awhile. Eat and drink. I am called Breeze, and this is my brother Starbuck. What do they call you?"_

 _The badger smiled. He touched one of his headstripes, which was yellow rather than white._

" _Some call me Sunflash the Mace. I am the son of Bella and Barkstripe. I'm a traveller."_

 _Starbuck nodded in satisfaction. "Your travelling is at an end, Sunflash. You are the grandson of Boar the Fighter and great grandson of Old Lord Brocktree. It is written on the walls of our mountain that you would come here someday."_

 _Sunflash straightened up. He stared hard at the hares. "Written you say. By whom?"_

 _Breeze shrugged. "By whoever wrote that other hares will follow after us. This is the way it has always been and always will be."_

 _Both hares stood in the cave entrance. They bowed to the badger._

" _Welcome to your mountain, Sunflash the Mace, Lord of Salamandastron."_

 _The high sun above watched as the badger and the hares went together into the mountain on the shores below._


End file.
